chaiNboli

1. Time has woven a long line between us: am not only talking of distance but the days in which silence prevailed between us. You, half moon and half poison, killing me and nurturing me.. how are you?  I think of you, and a prayer fills inside me, throbbing against my spin and cold against my heart. This is when I realize that I would sacrifice myself for you. Sometimes I take light in my hands and try to hold it, only to make myself a fool. May be that's the metaphor for us? You the light, the mighty sun and me, a foolish Icarus? That reminds me of Hozier singing : "Hold me, carry me slowly, my sunlight Each day, you'd rise with me Know that I would gladly be The Icarus to your certainty Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight Strap the wing to me Death trap clad happily With wax melted, I'd meet the sea Under sunlight, sunlight, sunlight" //Sunlight, Hozier// I am still peeling my pomegranate heart , in case you return to a burning home with an empty stomach. I am s...

I have heard that  it rains diamonds on jupiter. But am not sure about it,  just like a fish,  unsure of the blueness of the sky. What I adore is the  shining dream of such impossibility. The calmness of that  three dimensional tragedy. The unkind death of smoke  it will cause. The aftermath of  clutched breath of shadow hued corals in the soil. The helplessness of an echo which disappeared before being born. The nakedness of sky  pulled over into an unfinished bowl. The forgetfulness of seeds to rise. The carving of ruin. The truth is   Jupiter doesn't fit in the mirror of my head.  Keep it in my urn, and if there is a future,  let archaeologists wonder about  the shame it holds.  Because, The world is burning,  and so am I. This means, today is a nice day  to turn into water  which decides its own state of matter .

My grief is a people pleaser,  so it opens it mouth only  while looking at the peacock eyes of night. My grief is a foolish radical,  hurting itself and  taking pride in being a carpet. My grief is a romantic martyr, snatching roses from butterflies  to impress an ignorant lover. My grief is the deer in the highway, waiting patiently for a headlight,  in empty promises of a heaven. My grief is a toothless child born under stars while pluto was dead. My grief is an uncurled finger,  which doesn't know  the tiniest grace of a slippery hug.. My grief is a fish  doing elegant back flips,  in hope of seeing miracles every where. My grief is a clown  who practices rope walk  and puts on a simple performance. My grief is blunt knife  which cuts me but  can't chase a piece of butter. My grief shows up in my door, Abruptly,   And asks me to follow. It's clawmarks, the way. The silence, so sacred. The end, the end...