My poetry – (2)


More than the meek nakedness
it is the shadows that hold the real magnetism
of things lying beneath.

A nude is a place where no possibilities
are left for imagination
Words prefer to lie low and meander like mad dogs.

A thing is a thing only until the shadow
holds its bends and shallows under a shroud.

All things revealed
the only possibility that remained in the room is that
the wick has to dip and burn out  in its own wax.

A word is a word only
having come to grips with its intended meanings
still retains some mist
under its shadow of warm breath.

Reasons are no better than dead leaves
soils suffer under the warmth of wet grip.

Seeds are always spilled for sprouting
Meanings differ at the point of convictions.

Shrouded forms are like serpents
coiled up in their own cages
struggling to lay off their dead skins.

Events make things better knowledgeable.

Even in the darkest of nights
it is the acknowledgement of shadows that sets the mood
for rituals of poetry
between men and women.

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