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. 



 

 

 

What we create together.

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Sweats from our touch is like the seraphic music,

you hear it and take it all in,like the holy waters.

This thumping of my heart against your chest,gives

the shakes to the neighbours.My eyelid is heavy,

my lipstick is off,you nibbled my fears,anxiety.

Like the mist,I got into you..you will to discover me,

see the reflection,then come and pat your heart,

I reside in there,open the knots,

the ties,

see the caricature in you,

The subsistence will grow harder,like parasite.

The quench will remain rapacious.

The thunder will rock our hearts,altogether,

forever,

Creating paradises to follow,

creating connotations of unfathomable desire.

I will soak into you,

bit by bit,

the level shall rise,over-rated it may be,

The smell of your chest gives the chill like the moon and the sun,

you make me,create me,

Like musical chords,

I hear you.

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