Night, a feeble goon of god,
it's hands haunting eclipses,
sinking the golden orange into a sea,
labelling it a foe.
Somewhere you are making sand castles, 
I dream, 
and beg the ocean not to ruin it.
I think of sending pigeons to 
dupe morning calls to you, 
so that you can wake up 
listening to a love song.
In their transparent cages 
they fly, only to get killed 
by my magenta knife.
In my dreams, 
my head is a electric wire 
sitting in your insulated shoulders, 
and you are not afraid to 
caress the last lilly of earth, 
pinned on my hair.
And in another, 
you are a seaweed 
embracing my dead body, 
guiding it ashore: 
a cruel joke.
What a shame that
you were trying to love me.
What a pity that 
am scared of staying alive.
What did you find, 
while peering inside me:
a holy garden or an ugly cemetery?
Did you see the cold 
pasted into my bones, 
not ready to leave?
And twenty eight words strung 
in a metallic frame?
Like a fruit falling,
not so far from a branch_
ripened, scattered and dead-
inside me lingers 
a terrible desire of 
this poem reaching
your doorstep,
by taking a red cab 
without fear of being groped.
And, 
if you find it by a miracle, 
please smile, or sigh.
Or nod.
Or look into its eyes for a minute.
And please 
don't turn back 
while all it wants is 
to say
 "stay".

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