There is a peculiar shade of indigo hurt in the sky that reflects in my eyes, as the night commenced with its jagged tongue narrating tales while gulping the clouds, the thunder and rain an idiosyncrasy which I find both difficult and necessary to understand.
Did you think I was unfamiliar with the game blind to the lipstick smear on your collar, I am the heart of city a highway that leads to both dreams fulfilled and prison of unresolved thoughts. I see the way you look at me as though a berry brightly coloured, sweet and sour,
which you can graze with your tongue melt in your mouth, I am October feisty and unafraid of being blown away by the system by the wind,
I am awaiting the birth of new order– a voice that will deafen the chaos that surrounds it.
Nowadays love is bittersweet, it’s both scattered pieces of soul and a request to dismiss ache, to outwit insanity I have come too far to fall behind there are Poets strolling along an endless path
of stormy white, I refuse to be kissed by memories that offer nothing
but gloom and despair.
The night is coming around to a close as the sky is streaked with shafts of pink light and hope, thrumming in my ears are the words ‘forever is a feeling misunderstood,’ I am sifting through the lies and searching for what’s true. Touch is ambiguous to feeling, to words
that have yet to prove that they’re worthy of desire,
of trust there is something about the way you smile that doesn’t reciprocate with my own— I am convinced that Poetry will either lodge you in my heart or throw you out, you are marked by the same obstinate longing as I.
Perhaps it is my folly; tucking away conscience beneath unswept rubble, leather bound journals, and era of forgotten moments that separate abalone clouds from charcoal— it verbalizes the shattered mirror through which we occasionally catch glimpses of the world; this moral culpability, these jaded lips painted fuchsia merely to put up a brave front— I am guilty, for how else can one explain the incessant thundering of heart? Pull up a rusty lawn chair, shake me and take me by the shoulders, loving someone deeply is equivalent to being tortured; and now I am lost, wandering aimlessly around areas of sparse population. I have always hated it when authors send characters down the elevator shaft, these honey-dipped corpses locked away in a room where even moonbeams cannot hope to reach. What a waste. If only I could touch them savor tempestuous torso before it rises past me like a host of thoughts irresistible; I am sorry, did you really think I changed?
Periodically, panting, the gleaming parquet floor creaks underfoot; pervasive thoughts halting to every urge, like rose wine the sense, the taste of you awakens every ounce, every fiber of my soul-–
With every changing season, I am looking for a reason.
Boastingly, brilliantly the blue sky inebriated speaks of bravery, as I trace circles with fingertips from lips to collarbone, thoroughly exploring wisps of breath; Autumn is a time for bearing against the wind, for introspection, a combination of events, chances, wishes that thrill beyond measure.
Dichotomy tells of contrasts between two things; ebony black brooding versus dove-white conviction, I have loved you without knowing how, without knowing when, I cannot decide whether it’s clairvoyance or déjà vu that draws me to your being—only that sweet sting of syntax serves as confirmation.
Are you afraid to believe? To embrace the aching sensuality of your thighs? I adore their resilience, their vulnerability, their anger, their passion, their truth and lies.
Love iambic – Love invigorating
With every changing season, I am looking for a reason.
Adumbral red this feeling; echoes round and round the colonnade as a gospel choir, oh how I love it so– symptomatically, the leaves fall and kiss the ground, as though aware of all that goes on in my heart;
pale heat, palmed rose
I have recognized you, while listening to sweet rustling music that inspires the wild pirouettes of earth-bound truths— would that obsidian sky look on as we gaze into each other’s eyes and become one; fervour painted upon less than rosy lips, you are the flower, I am the thorn, watchful and vigilant— seeking to make our way through on a much more somber note,
only lovers know of dilemma, hunger for the light I have come to know that it begins as a storm and continues
to become a poem— can you feel the thunder within as days become colder and shorter? I have recognized you.
Because I’ve studied him; know exactly how it plays across chiseled features, this wild honey, this art of reaching into the soul merely by listening— it appears cloudier still, how lips taste like every thought I’ve ever had; this magnetic hypothesis’s efficacious is confusing.
I hate small talk; but if it means I am getting one step closer to knowing who you really are, then I guess it’s worth it. Nowadays the doors are closed, not because of incapability but simply because we choose it; gone are the days when people would engage in deep conversation— favorite movie, a casual comment on the weather; that’s all good and relevant but what about insecurities and fears? What about things that keep us up at night? I’d like to think there is still a chance, to pull a plain cheese from the oven just to make somebody laugh— there is heaviness in apathy, there is heaviness in silence.
Could it be that everything is leading to this juncture? The wind ushering away volatile thoughts which threaten
to twist pieces of straw into rope in the corner of my mind— I dress in a hurry, all the while, hoping, for the weather to be fine; coffee steaming in a richly decorated pot, there are days when the antiseptic blue of the sky helps see
the bigger picture— one minute it rains and another behaves.
“Excuse me sir, which way leads to Oxford Street?”
Do you remember? Remember, the time we went to the moor? Barefoot round a turning in the path— in the darkness an unexpected scent touched us, of honey, heather and gorse bush which seems to be embroidered into the very landscape.
Tell me how do you feel? Sleeplessness unveiling itself from the bitter blue sky; if only we could paint choices on its walls wouldn’t need to then endure all that follows. I am slightly damp, for romance of melancholy found within the classics refuse to leave me; is this what it means to be an old soul?
We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time, mortality, my dear, is a flavor long attached with the moors. And I wonder if expansiveness, if mere concept that tugs needs to be explored more often? Do we cry or rest?