I hear a pain talking
behind my left earlobe
I realize my stomach is critical
of literature and realizes a few
sylvan principles that rule the woods…
They said I shouldn’t sleep
lest I’ll be lost in the purple ribs
and the incense that’ll blow off my nostrils
There is nothing that I could remember
Just the weal of your name
that beautifies my tanned skin
And shards of those kisses like splinters
and the wrestling pulp wish could
redesign what is elemental, inevitable
And furnish myself
With more poison-ivy…
I’m lost within the third of May
My stomach so critical of this feel
and the pain that nested
Whispers unto me
A vicious design that is cuddling me
Could this sun disinfect the valley of wounds?
6 comments:
one of the best poems i have read in a long time. I wish i could write something like this.
and u have been talking abt intellectual depth :)
beautiful.....
i m already a fan of urs...:)
@ hey ramanuj.... thanks so much...
i was just trying to make some sense of the last rib that we discussed:)
@DeadsCripTor
thanks so much...
yes, this one talks to us in a pain that is nurtured and nudged by those allusive hints... truly remarkable.
Deep...
Hope I can make poems with such profoundity like this one.
@ Raj and Webbielady....
my heartfelt thanks to both of you... for ur suport....
Webbielady, u r anytime a better weriter than me, however i m indebted to u for this honour u bestowed...
thanks
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