Passion

What seemingly is my life
is an utter mess
without you.
My essence, and very existence,
-how could anything be,
without you.
How each moment, and
every little breath
as if intoxicated,
heave of you.
My strife- against this world,
my passion, and the pain I bear
belong to you;
This thirst can quench
solely by you.
My every thought
is of you.
Every moment, and
every little breath
as though addicted
heave of you.
Am I anything but you?

yesterday's ghosts

Lores spoken in whimsical prairies

by the dark cold walls in fragrant breaths

of incandescent thoughts sifting thin air

clenching at souls that remained

with will of stone, penance for curse of death

they swept through cadavers empty and abysses alike

wishing for just a minuscule of time

to at-least once feel, as they did before.

Thoughts

Thoughts are vile mosaics

incomplete yet pure

boasting of an addling color galore

and whimsies of an un-tethered kite,

midst winds of countless skies.

they make you believe, they are here to stay

as you cuddle in the comfort of their shade

they frolic in your disarray!

Just a bit scared

 

I  am just a little riddled

in the maze of  life,

looking for the light of love,

I am all alone now.

I am scared I'll never know,

the right way out.

I tried to close me eyes,

and forget you.

still would like to know

if you look at her

as you did at me,

I tell myself I don’t care enough,

but I guess it’s a lie

 cause its too much

to get lost in the moment of past,

cos I'm a fool still in love

I am so scared I’ll never know

any way out!

A stone's life

Picture courtesy: David Sokoh

bringing alive at touch,

the fresh nip of wind swims through the bare neck,

the dainty hair, along the skin ablaze

cringes and bumps along the follicle.

A rush of blood reminds of the tenderness I wear,

beneath lies a crumpled, worn, and withered, much smeared child

unmoved, un-clued, betrothed to a  funeral pyre,

disenchanted to the lovers muse

to the musk of sweat beneath my own breasts

I need a holy chant,

to bring me to the former painted face,

the acceptable picture of a chaste saint.

let me not feel alive, my pride aside I pray

for to live means to sin

at suncrests and dusks alike

awakening me deep inside

a nip of wind, your touch alike

unrests my shameful soul unaware