*Segments in a book never published*

1.

After the Chernobyl  fields of sunflowers were  rised in the ground that cleansed the land of radioactivity tetanus. In science,the processe

is termed as "phytoremediation".In literature we call this a love poem.

Will it be a cliche if I call you my sunflower then? Will it be foolish if I say I want to swirl as the last smoke of a cigarette under your muslin feets? Will it be stupid if I get amazed by how a mere plant saved a whole land, but then get confused of calling a sunflower a mere flower because I just found you as a synonym of the same? Let me tell you you are the sunflower of my Chernobyl, changing the byword of catastrophe to something endurable. 

I read that when the sunflowers

were all grown up,they were harvested and 

safely disposed of through pyrolysis. Pyrolysis is defined as the thermal decomposition in an inert temperature. How can I make them understand that it is the land not the sunflower that needs purification in the purgatory? How can I make them understand the sunflower is the purest ?

Let us change the roles on the day when the flower has to be disposed.Be the holy land 

I will be the sinner going for confession.And if I come back, then hold me like a mandarin in your hand, peel me into the sun's mouthpiece and let me melt in your tongue.

2.

You are just like the music residing in a musician's microphone which the world never deserves because of its beauty. The silvery moonlight clouds are going to hold you as theirs for they ate going to be jealous of every syllable your pen scratches over the paper. (How I wish to turn into a paper, my skin into a a papyrus sheet where your beautiful poems rest till eternity?)

The whole galaxy seemed mysterious and gloomy until you were introduced. You made everything clear - like a patch of sunlight on a foggy morning, like the beaming movement of a firefly in a winter night..

Everything drowns in your eyes, with pleasure. A suicide but beautiful.  

I wish to be thrown over, to be possesed, to be killed.  By you. I wish you to use my shoulder bone as your flute.i wish you to hold me down like your slave. (Am your slave)

But I know you are a goddess. A goddess never throws growel over a dead man's heart. Why should she, in the first place watch a mortal one? A dirty rug? So I try to be silent. I stay silent in constant fear that if I speak thr truth I will lose the right to pray. So yes forget it.

How can I tell what I want to tell? How can I not? I may swallowed glasses so that I can stop myself. Does this make sense? 

I want to ask you everything I want to know.  I want you to ask me everything in hope that u want to know about me. But what if a piece of paper destroys everything?

My fingers are afraid of what to write of you and what to write to you... what if it utter what you don't want to hear? What if they are trying to tune into something you won't like? What if what they are doing you is intimidating like a coal painting over a mansion's newly painted wall: disturbing, and destroying your peace?

Forgive me for my fallacies.

May the angels never run out of lullabies to you. 

3.

In the temple of my mind, something new arises. One look, and I know.This is the beauty that devastes, demolish and destroy, that is condemned by the world calling it a sin. In the light of angels, the bodies of humans are small, strange and a tool to test the human faith. Temptation is highly regarded among the celestial beings I think, a competitive item to group humans into two: if you win, you ate team god. And if you are not, then welcome to group dark devils. What should I do? How can I repent? Do I need to repent?
May be God, if there is one, have agreed with the devil to test me over a cup of tea, like in case of Job - a fun activity, a bloodless hunting, a new Netflix show to entertain the residents of hell and heaven.
In that case, if suffering is a form of worship, I assure you am a religious one. I do it put of habit, out of pleasure and while heartedly.  So, what am I asking you to do? To pray for me to be freed from this pain which is beautiful and also complex as a verse in terza rima?
No.
Am suffering happily. Because this confusion, the root, is of a sunflower.
Am not complaining.  Infact, am thankful. To be known of what I am.
To be worthy of being to know someone.

4.

The paper humming birds amazes me with their blue songs. May be I should kept them close. Because am scared.
I am scared of what you are doing to me- this love that feels like a snake's dream. You turn me inside out, like a pair of socks with your words, but am afraid of showing g you my heart. So I smile foolishly trying to hide everything from your eyes. My hunger is punished by abandonment of near future, so I let it fall over the papers I find inside old notebooks. And when your hair falls over your slender neck, I fear that am going to be a purple line and it is when I put gun on my mouth to stop myself from kissing you. I am embarrassed of my thoughts that move like todes on a saintly river. I think, with a heart soft and weighting like a pollen grain that I'll die, before making me a fool out of me.
In every dream I have now a days, I yearn for you- foolishly, desperately, a final dance of war. I yearn to be kissed by you, to be killed by you, to be possesed by you. You become a tornado which I want to be my home.
After this every morning, my desire takes the shape of a dice and I want to send it to you- to be crushed, to be pinned down like a butterfly inside a second hand book, to be whipped up like a sacrifice. Am foolish, am bad, am dirty.
All I could think about is your fingers breaking my heart like pieces of twigs you found on a lazy morning walk.   Shoving off me like a shoes wet on an unexpected rain to the dark corner of your apartment- with disgust and then moving forward in search of cozy slippers.
And so I keep the knife to myself, telling that I can hurt me and its fun.

5.

This is dream two. There is bloodshed, because in love even gutters turn red- of blood. This is the dream where you were a sailor and I was trying to copy blackish chants from an ancient book in shorthand so that I could be a ship. The ship,to be clear. I memorised the phrases and they floated in my mouth like an oily fish dish. The angels were impatient. I had betrayed them and their god. They were not listening to me in the first place, chatting merely over the story of a saint whose breasts were cut down. It is why I made the devil to listen to me, and it was he who splitter the evening to equal halfs and got me the chants. And this is the story of how I sold my soul to become your wretched ship. Angels rised from their dens and burned me with their fluttering wings and I moved beyond your skin like a snowfall. This is my sin-  I was supposed to love their god and what he wanted me to love. But I narrowed down it into a micronote: of your hands.
And then the scene changed. In my sleep, i heard the soft thunder of your body falling into bed and I wanted to be cathedral where this sound will be the hymn. So I tried to collect a lungful of glass pieces as I found no flowers to offer.At that time I could name all the guns in the world, may be that is my litany. I found devotion in consuming poison so that I could rest inside a coffin in your courtyard.
In the dreams followed, I turned my body into a ladder so that you can climb over the tree to pluck strawberries. I turned into a bed of straw so that you can sleep, my little Jesus, my saviour....