We’ve lost the count, yet one more time
My rook commits her silly crime
And breaches all across the board.
My “Sorry!” duly gets ignored.
You’re growing weary of these draws.
No “calm and eerie” smile, no cause
For other move. The empty chair.
Inertia permeates the air.
All past and present get reduced
To “game” (the aegis of the used).
The bloodless page takes every scratch:
My flawless heart, my broken sketch.
In clamps of gloom afore unknown
I shall return to my dark home,
Fall through the softness of my sheets
Where ache remains and thrill repeats.
You are the first, and you may see
The newborn baby star (it’s me),
Who either sings or wails. Who knows
What she is craving… words? Or notes?
I’ll hear the lines, and my despair
(Still grinning wide out of her lair)
Shall loosen the enduring curse,
And ‘stifling night shall bear a verse.
The murk has turned the mist of hopes
Into this bitter carnal dust
And lowered the deceit of clothes
Down to the wrists drained of all lust.
In brazen night are barely seen
Cape Neck and Canyon Collarbone.
A hazy strand’s yielding that sheen,
Touched by the moonlight. We’re alone.
You’re sitting there, in rare tongue
Calling all stars to fix your girl,
Exhaling midnight from your lung
Into the room, curl after curl.
Your stars of copper will align
To throw their sparkling precious seine
Onto my naked back – a shrine
For the half-angel and half-man.
I guess I’ll let your moon rest deep
In gloomy lakes guarded by swans,
And you can let my brittle sleep
Reach stars of copper, stars of bronze,
Where freezing lovebirds cry for cure
For their depleted heavy wings,
While flying high and staying pure
En route to fairies and their kings.
November 25 2017
June 15 2018
June 15 2020
Souls do not diverge in ways of meaning.
Yet they part their ways when fear checks in.
Curving spaces hold our bodies leaning,
Never let us loose to feel the skin.
Idle tries to comprehend creation
Bear no count to atoms, chances, stars.
What’s that shadow hung in desperation?
Honeysuckle’s ghost on rusty bars.
Long ago stars touched the fragile flowers,
And they never wondered for how long.
What made you decide to waste what’s ours,
Sacrifice what could become our song?
We are walking knee-high through the greenlands.
You are touching stones, just like before
You were brushing my skin with your lean hands,
Holding me like cello on the floor.
Well… My chapter of the barren story
Might not quite be what you had in mind.
Like museum relics in their glory,
I leave all our ersatz roles behind.
Empty spot in an unfinished painting
Could have been the moonlight, so it seems.
People in those grayscale prints, now fading,
Actually were seeing colored dreams.
The noiseless train was rushing up the helix.
Frenetic switchmen whistling after us.
A day? A century, us, waiting with our eyes fixed
For rays of sun to be no more. And thus,
We left the train precisely at the station
Where Pan was teaching nights the art of dark,
Where every fantasy and each consideration
Were silent like the nearing of a shark.
The quietude was numbing every muscle.
The empty trail was winding like a snake.
Our steps were getting bolder in a rustle
Of fallen hopes expired for peace’s sake.
We saw the red and breathed the burning currant.
We knew, the miracles were really not that far,
So we stepped in, no matter how much burnt,
All tempted by the heated cinnabar.
The moon was covered in cashmere and minding
Each move and sound and whiff of living earth.
The buzzing bubbling glow was slowly gliding
Over the world caught up in its rebirth.
That feeling of a myriad tiny stingers
Right through the nerves of necks and lips and hands
Was sprung from our delighted greedy fingers.
Our veins were rivers feeding thirsty lands.
Oh we were smitten! Grateful. Yes… However,
Across dimensions burnt and long collapsed
Three words were written: “Fools”, “Alas”, and “Never”,
They squirmed and ached and grew as time elapsed.