My poetry (7)


One has to resist
the temptations to turn back and look.

When the parting takes shape
departing is the only mode of comfort.

A way is a walking into the meaning of things.

The red pock-mark on the forehead
looks to have descended from the milky way
to settle down like a sage in the cage
after the coronation.

Bodies prepare for the flood of rites.

Days and nights
aren’t ways laid in a bid to win the hearts?
positions taken to hit at the right spot?

Heart is a matter where things take place
at a rapid pace
a revolt means
breaking down of the entire mechanism at once.

Heart-aches like head-aches
do not disappear that easily.

The spider has to weave the web
with utmost precision and passion
that the catch doesn’t miss the final bout
of navigation into the nights.

The proud will do away with the robes
in a bid to lay bare all facts;
the notions of discontentment are a later interpolation.

Where there is no palpable sin
the revelations don’t mean anything.

The curse therefore continues to remain in the heads
until the burning takes place in the far away woods.


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