The wedding ring lay heavy on the third finger, as my finger ages, it sunkens and digs deep. The wedding ring never ages, its tiny diamonds still sparkles, it glows like a pale moon… A woe, a misery it has tight grip around my swollen finger like metal shackles… It’s glorious sheen encircles my timid …
Enthroned regal on the chef’s handpicked plate, adorned with the Grecian cutlery. Crowned with a dash of lush-push glistening glorious butter surrounded with the gleeful wild mushrooms, snobbish handpicked Romas, and that indifferent Sun-baked Potato King. Juices of Youth overflowing through edges, butchered just this morning by some sturdy Polish hands, around The Madison …
Behind those crooked smiles lie some grief, little pain… Those winning dimples, sunken deep in cheeks hollowed by cheap joints of gas-stations telling tales of murky betrayals. Ruby wines oozing of the pale veins in those abandoned cabarets. Love a Wasteland! She did bloom a Rose or a Tulip somewhere!
I stole a kiss from the crimson Sun, an embrace from the sickly tree, a smile from the fading flower, humility from the burdened Earth. A spoon-full of water from that dying, river, its gentle waters relaxing one last time and taking a deepest sigh! I leaned in my insatiable greed knowing that it’s spirit …
Yes life hurls stones and pebbles fate bombards proxies, follies phonies but hold on…. I am a sucker for one more! I devour failure like a hungry homeless for I’ve nothing to eat so I gulp every failure down my parched throat till the-bitter liquid of failure syncs-with the juices in my emaciated stomach… Oh! …
In the darkest pits of soul lingers a little flame kept alive by the rays of purity. A perpetual fire, illuminating the grim core, burning the edges of stale misfortunes….. A lone flame standing its ground against cruel winds of fate….. Assuring that heaven is right there with-in us, surrounded by our own hells, and in …
While you were searching my whereabouts,I was standing next to an oak tree… when all the leaves came out of deep slumber and the wintery dusk descended, it was about time for me to lurk beneath those ancient roots and search in raven labyrinths, the meaning of icy darkness that possesses you and me and …
Am I nostalgic? For the sinful youthful gone by, the momentary bubbles of champagne burs-ted vanished into thin airs. Am I nostalgic? Of the elusive lovers lost in the abysses of spiral times. Am I nostalgic? Of the silent tears and melancholia heart of my youth! Am I nostalgic? Of my fleeting vanity and the …
Swathed in the warmth of your skin in awe of deep amorous breaths, slow rising chest, those rhyming heat-beats provoking gentle ripples in me. Without a hope for redemption under the ardent urgency surrendered and taken away to the prisons of your venereal mockings to be arrested under your love-spell!
No hurry if I match few steps with my
homeless prince to flip a coin in the Trevi
fountain in site to check on our fates once