Her face was a war-torn battlefield
Where I couldn’t tell the difference
Between the ushering cries of moles mounding up from flawed skin
Or the subdued sniffles of scars from the night before
I couldn’t tell the difference,
Between her areolas and irises
As they disappeared upwards, both folding between heavens
Oh! The battling eyelashes, shyly lashing me away
Clothed only in her shame
Now the lady sees the light!
She knows my name and beckons me
“Onwards”, “the hinterland awaits”
Another step as I move forward,
With a penchant to dream, perchance false,
Gypsy woman wriggles in ecstatic visions
I shudder at the very next thought of the very next sight
“Write!”, she said, “or writhe in agony”,
“as a cosmic loneliness descends upon you”
“from the clouds hanging low over these melancholy hills”
“as you spill desires over your expectations”
Crystal balls tingle my scrotum as it tightens
The fortune teller awakens the escapist dreamer in me
Onwards, to where destiny unites with fortune -
Ruined beyond repair, I’ve never been more resurgent.
- suraj sharma
- my mind, therefore, becomes this outstretched field of immeasurable serenity, which, although illuminated at angles awkward and unfamiliar to my eyes - is neither dark nor twilit. The strange lighting turns the vacuous foreplay of shadows chasing shadows into an euphoric, almost utopian feeling which is held in suspension as long as this configuration of appearances beckons the restlessness of reason ever forward into the uncharted hinterlands of imagination while at the same time compelling me to bless the lighting director.
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