The~grey~ the~ Black.

Image result for grey and blackIf you create a circle around me, the voids should be flaccid

if the volcano erupts, the smoke should say the forlorn tales

the markings, the sayings

the screech, the thunder-clap

my tattoos, my caricature

covered in the stack  of grey thoughts

so I love black.

as the concrete foundation

as the depth of

the fountains of black orchids

the museums of grey art

the circulation of  flaccid grey murmurings

Numb eyes, melodious clandestine truths

the mystery takes control disguised as the black lady.

So I love to forming circles in the grizzled blur.

the known, the unknown

the grey, the black.


the sliced part of the moon served

on my platter.



Ode To The-Bench.

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The grey bench memoir of sacrosanct tales

with the rustle of our love-making

or the infinite stories of heart-breaking

this was all here, on this grey bench

surrounded by the cacophony of night intruders,

the morning walkers

the passersby.

In the wake of rupturing seeds,

the golden cover across the field,

the witnesses,

forming a twirl up and down, side by side,

over the bench,

inside the soul,

like the romancing of snow with the cold breeze

I feel the repeats even today,

like the soft rocking to the baby.

The flashbacks can be brutal

the way ink sucked out of the paper

making the glance ghostly.

The bench knows the melange

a potpourri of stars and thunders.

It was all here,

it is here.

You serve like a sweet blend

the merry making.

the ice-breaker. 





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Come sit, have a sip of the black tea, I prepared.

The story is long for your forlorn heart would claim the pain in a moment or two.

The chain I talk today, oh, sorrow is diabolical,

so frugal, barbarous

the inside of my mind, heart have left the colonies of pleasure as if.

As I cross my wrist, hear the crackle

the crackle of my solitutude

lit in my eyes,


the burning glaze you see,

the dilapidating music you hear, 

come sit have,  another  sip of the black tea,

the tales shall get darker as you sip your black tea.

The ruckus runs through my skin, joining dots

on my skin,

creating shambles like a dead corpse

creating paradox.

The arms extend late nights to grab a bottle of comfort, you see?

The comfort like meadow, oh, the sweet meadow,

peace like the orchids, white natured.

Yes the,

soft feather stating

gorgeous wings,infinte joyous tales to discover.

Oh,  you finished the tea.. wish a refill?

For this soul can say the darkest of chronicles,

like the flowing wishful evergreen Ganges.



Delight Touch

Image result for featherSingle, double

one on the other,  


like mermaid’s eye,

imprints of your surreal skin,

like the imprints on the sky,

wanderer, a hungry lioness,

colossal walks,

endless nights,



fiction as hard as a black rock,

Wrinkles formed, beneath thy body,

inside thy soul,

clamouring, in the wild ebb,

Then, this feather

soft as poppy,

hug my veins, all of it.

Runs magic, autonomy,

dissolving into my red,




Making inside shine,

oh thy feather,

forming straight paths to walks,

The red nails,

consonance to drugged-eye.


the stealth of symphony,

like the icicles formed,

One on one,

unveiling the touch,

patterns formed.



It’s the Doomsday.

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Today is the day when I feel the doomsday

clotting my blood

palpitating my heart.

The rumbling of emotions too hard to handle

The sorrow shall blow the flickering candle,

The enigma bloats the conscious,

like the unkindled romance,

or never met the loving couple

the luminous soul bleeds,

yearning stoutness.

The eyes for this day

don’t glitter,

for it’s the doomsday.

Hopes In Heart.

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With the roses in mind,

hopes in heart

I walked down

in the euphoria of Twilight stars

You stood there,

my gargantuan soul

twirling my black curls,

As you patted my hair,

You kissed the left out corners of my heart,

Healed it,

Nurturing it,

Making the pains disperse,

in the forbidden time.