The sweet scent of the bosom

The tiny trivial tales

tinkle like gales

tangled with the myth.

                                        His voice cracks

in the other end of the cable.

and I could hear her

melodious silent words wandering in the background.

We giggled and chuckled

choked with charms

from the same plate.

                                    Chaoba dreams in her hostel in China.

Amo breathes nine ranges of hills away from home.

                                    Echal lies at the bosom decorated with lonesome.

I look to my right,

Turn to the left.

But I see them none.

Only books in tons.

                           

                                    

A haiku - 3 in 1

Tie me not autumn leaves,
The monsoon rain has washed me clean.
The seasons have lost their mind.

Inconsequential moments
Crafting significant reminiscences.
A snowy summer awaits.

The lines in my head
Escaped my hands,
Turning into concrete words.

A big fat ass lie.

I do not need remorse to write poetry

nor i need sorrow to make a story.

I only need tranquility.

So, please stop imagining 

that you are nourishing

me in becoming a great poet.

Vicissitude

Arrival on the left,

departure on the right.

people waiting, people leaving.

nothing really happens.

No stagnation,

add, switch, transfer.

Small airports in small towns,

Huge airports in massive twinkling cities.

We keep moving, shifting our faith from one airport to another.

We, the hypocrites of the time. 

The train we were talking about.

Its a toy land down there,
where the train flows chugging between the buildings
full of yellow lights and street lamps.
Its a reflection from the glass window where i used to wonder
if i was ever going back.
its a river of memory in this minute,
only a reminiscence of the past.

Whipped?

An image of a whip on the page

Among all the images of the pages;

a black and white comic book.

That is what I saw when I heard his voice,

his silenced voice that hovers in my brain,

snapping here and there like a lightning bolt

that cuts my veins

creating a short circuit

in my /hollowed/ system/ filled/ with/ charms and chances.

Behold the prince charming of the fairyland

enchanted by my bewitched plans

bereft of evil intentions.

Sans mercy, sans mercy! Forgive me my darling.

Deranged

Without you,
the guitar string bleeds,
sucky music passes by my window.
I being insane, lay on my bed quite, staring out at the floating clouds,
in the process of searching my mind and the distorted confidence.
Glaring and tripping on her poems,
must I follow Sylvia?