A Devil’s Rendezvous

Pic Courtesy : unsplash.com/@johnwolf3

…and then she claimed into the moving metal bogie, in a

flamboyant attire, with no make over, with no polished nails.

Her eyes were sharp like a guillotine, every time she closes and

every time she opens it shines as if it was sharpened.

 

Like a slash of a great warrior, her torso was a clean cut

designed with divine’s own precision toolkit.

Her bosom complimented the waves of the oceans and

every wave threw a spear in the air puncturing my hormonal sack.

 

I could metaphor her hair with the moonglade on the ocean, it was

not black nor blonde, it was plaited and glittering.

My olfactory picked no fragrance, no scent: natural or artificial,

other than the extreme cologne of femininity!

 

I have read about Ishtar, a delicate beauty, but

this woman was far delicate than Ishtar, a hawk’s feather.

When with no special power we want to look beautiful and

Why not a devil with all super power wants to look ugly!

-S.K

Love of my Past!

There is an unfathomable hole in my soul,

Deep down lives the memory of the past of

the unsatiated unquenched love of my life.

 

Some movies, some music, some words,

Some rain, in times some shine, some couples,

reminds me of me-with-you as you-with-me.

 

Like the petrichor, like the blooming jasmine,

like the smell on baby skin, your fragrance sleeps

in my philtrum and it wakes in time like a alarm.

 

And my soul rejuvenates from slumber and I dwell

in the past to see if that can be turned to present,

to relive to relieve the weight of the memories with you.

 

When there is a knock on my window sill by the rain,

 I reckon the day you rejected my umbrella walk, and

When the same rain drops touches my cheeks,

I remember the day we walked together under the umbrella.

 

You held my arm like a baby holding her mothers neck,

the rain, the umbrella, the togetherness doesn’t exist today

but the scorches of your palm, your tender love is still a scar!  

sk

Mirage

…I have to start it from the middle for I am in the middle of a summer day, scorching and burning.  There is no place to hide, no shade to fide.  I reason out it to be cauterization for I have been bitten by many poisonous beasts. When everyone waits for sunshine I wait for the night time, the dark and cold sky.  I sleep in the desert sand and the heat never leaves even after the sun goes down, the surface is chilled by the moonshine but the heart of the desert still fumes with heat.  I am just a poor pupa in conjuncture to develop into a butterfly.  The soul is caught inside the body making it difficult to fly and reach its astral home.  There is no space for my soul to twist and turn inside the body I was caught in. And the soul lacks the ability to tear open the body to fly and reach heaven.  The abode, the haven is what it looks like but it feels like a prison; caught behind the bars.  It is all nonsense: the dogmas, the righteousness, and the rules of culturally correct life. It is all cynical.  Everything here is only a mirage wherein the water you see is untrue but the mirage is true.

 

What am I writing!  I started it somewhere and just like my life the context moved into a different direction.  Words! O words! You are my last abode, betray not me please. Thousands of word runs in my brain and I could feel them in my fingers but the mind interrupts to make mistake in the spellings and I pronounce it wrong.  I have clumsy thoughts, mystic thinking and dusty memories; I have dumped them all in a corner of my brain but when the new thoughts comes it still stinks with the older dumps from the corner.  What a stupendous, stupefied, astonishing but wasted design!

 

Nothing makes sense, the context above, the sleep, the waking up, the walk and run, the work and job, the money and savings nothing makes sense.  The soul knows the universe is just one soul and the images we see are only the fast and slow accelerating cells. There is no you and me, there is only I and that is only one I, everyone is one I. Of course all those crap enlightening stuffs of reality of the universe is known to the soul and the soul tries to teach the mind and brain but the cognizant is so dark and dusty that the mirror just cannot not be wiped clean to show the reality.

 

It is hard to distinguish the truth and falsehood, the real and fake for everything is in juxtaposition.  Let the universal soul, some day, rest in peace!