What We Chose

Reflections of mangled confidences
In incandescent words
Of inevitable losses
Those who sought redemption
From repudiated horrors
Of untimely hours
In muted reveries;
Vaporized voices of intangibilities.

Airtight metal doors locked;
Unresponsive to patterned codes
Of likely misconstrued rhetorics;
Of queasily relinquished prides;
In quizzical encumbrances
In unrequited diminishing vortices.

Anthropomorphically weighed physics
Of bleakly styled truths
Or exquisitely chiseled fallacies.
Where comforted comorbidities
Of mythological redundancies
And existential deities,
Salve.

Spouting extrications of love’s yearnings
Hopelessly behind those locked doors
In layered inquiries of reality, prophecies
And connected scales of measured precisions
Of ethically disapproved pursuits;
Pierced valves of barely perceived incisions.

Here’s a secret,
Morality is whatever I wanted it to be.

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Clovers

Futily I search deserted tundras
For six leafed clover
In Fata Morgana mirages
Morphing, distorting, inverting
Sequentially imagined scenarios.

The harshness of veracity
Shoots flaming arrows of certainty,
Voraciously confirming
Fata Morgana promises
Of travelling distant lands
That were not targeted towards me,
Piercing this soul of its fetidity;
The offensive odor of pomposity;
To have the audacity
To have even an inkling of suspicion
To think that
That tumultuous wielder
Of golden tipped arrows
Would point such artillery
At such unworthy targetry.

The sombre of mendacity
Feebly folds in margins of duality
Of acceptance and repudiations
Where Fata Morgana regions
Supply convecting refracted reasons
Of changes in emotional climates;
Discarded ancient promises dustily
Recovered over realisations of finality.
You were the catalyst for germinating emergence
That were pushed out from underneath;
From soils of freezing and thawing cycles
Where permanence didn’t stand a chance;
Still, even in beguiling barren landscapes
In another flickering optical distortion
I see fields of clovers.

Such A Love Story

I blockade the borders
Where our time
Neither rescinds
Or progresses.
For if I turn back,
I’ll become lost
In the foreign lands
Of the Sahara;
Where waters run
Dry, sucking
Up the moisture
From my eyes.

It’s better to cast away
Occurrences as ubiquity
Than to deal with such
Unbearing pains
Of what never was
Or abnormality.
It’s better to accept
This tolerable fate;
That I just lost
Base with reality
Again,
Than to entertain
Each impossibility,
Because
Such
Fairytale
Stories
Have only ever existed
In entertainment
In my atomically proportioned life,
Because such a love story
Couldn’t possibly happen,
Not to me,
Because
Hoping
I’m wrong
Doesn’t seem to do
Anything.
Because waiting
For a miracle to happen
Crushes me daily.

I keep wishing
On tiny stars
That he’d speak to me
Again.

But my fairy god mother
Is dead.