Red

A weary wanderer gazes
At the scape that marks,
In permanence, the divisions
Of the land, sky, and sea.

The ship tips in sways
While the bow lobs
In varied feats.

Waters swirl and surge,
While the ship jerks
In unsteady tempoed rocks.

He listens to them slop
And swish against the hull.
Placing his right hand
On metals protesting in oscillation,
Turns and tosses
A floatation device.

Dramatic Hand Brushes

Thunderously tumultuous rumbles whizzed in pours.
We listened to those sounds while our fingers softly crossed.
Sprinkled after showers sparkled in spectrumed ranges,
Lying on curvatures of ridged polycarbonate awnings,
You ridded off rigidly with ragged towel like cloth
Against wistful pleas of please don’t’s
As traces of those droplets evaporated.

I’d try recreating pieces
With tubular glitters
Unable to recapture
The beauty we saw.

Diminishing images
Of compositions;
Lost expressions
Of those vibrancies.

I heard you say
“Try anyway.”

But you left that day

And took
My fucking glitter.

“Try anyway.”

Empty

In retrospect, I should be grateful, for
Being given the chance to witness
Scribbled extensions of undeciphered labor
Where figures posed in lines of incantations
Were carved as illusory caves of historical
Hysterics on breathable skin parchments,
For I’d have never learned to transpose
The technical aspects of applying those
Specific pressures on zinc plated panels.

I should be grateful, that the time I spent
Searching for healing lines weren’t wasted

Then why is it that I feel like crying
When I think of how I’ve lost images of his faces
When I still have these lines that fill up these pages
Even while silent whispers of finally met passion’s keep calling my name?

 

 

 

Then the susurrus of familiar experiences soothe
In how it didn’t seem so vastly different in its birth
In each of those misstroked hatchings.

But it was.

It Clicks


 

Can you explain
The scales that consecutively run
To those that cannot sense it.

Our vision that pales;
His, hers, and mine,
In the faces of sophists.

Then dewy inklings
Of feathered proofs lapse
By subsequent engineering
In uncounted droplets
On tympanic shields
From deciphers felt.

Breathless moments buried;
Dissonant reverberations
Diminishing;
Things I
Use to
Savor.

Twinkles

Discounted meteor showers;
Sightings sorely missed in time lapses
Due to restricted circumstances.

Fickle shutter speeds
Opening and closing;
Intentions in aperatures of
Distorted isometric patterns.
Adversity’s worthiness
In illusions of craters by asteroid
Impacts of miscalculated velocities
For actual disintergrating deterioration
Of meteoric debris.

How I wonder,
How many glowing trails
Sparkled and fell, and their locations,
And how they may have never
Existed
At all.

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.