a desolated girl in the wee hours
of the midnight devoid of any sound
in the pitch black of her home’s backyard,
with the hazy feel of dull and passive moods
restrained in the inner sense to a unusual disturbia,
glooming her minds veiled and
in loner lassitude she gets down drowsy,
down to a solo black melancholy,
while everything else in the continuum
around is dark and dread,
in this eerie aftermath leaving her stranded.
Perhaps she is affected by this solo sickness,
wrecking her down,
immersing her deep onto this gruelling
foggy midst of aches and stings,
realizing the pangs of the mating flame,
as if she is set in a slow ablaze
of queer wintry spines,
like the fire of a chimera,
in this cold night of her black malady,
alongside her bleakly woes of a surreal sextain.
Its a sestina of her aches and agony,
divulging her mood’s sinister sting
sans her panacea, sans her antidote,
sans her soul’s irradiance.
Its the lyric of her yearn
alongside that inner creeping in sour,
the slow manoeuvring inner sphere
of pangs and yearn while sensing the venom of time,
sans the quenching liquor,
lacking the artist of her soul’s painting,
lacking the poet of her soul song,
even its very sound, its every last unseen wave.
She is all alone and bitten by this slither,
the serpent that seduces you
with this malaise of black malady,
that manoeuvres your insides
with a deviant harshness
while creeping underneath your skin
with sour chillness paradoxically,
as you are slowly flapping
your unseen inner wings eerily,
with inner thirst in search
of your quenching liquor,
the liquor personified.
The freckles in her skin
reminds us of the touch,
while the spots and acne in her face
reminds us of the brace,
the lack of moisture in her parched lips
suggests us her other twine’s absence
has seriously taken her down and dull,
depressed and eerily ill.
Her inner flapping is quite intense
though in a milder pace,
as she closes her eyes feeling her roving scintillas
all burned down to ashes and grey.
her instigated pecks of ethereal longing
have descended in vain,
those tiny specks of lewd lustre and serene patina,
the irradiating entities of wild arousal
and indistinct call, are seemingly obfuscated
denying their traverse in a void swallow,
defying their very purpose,
to refute its lewd calling,
while she is still flapping amongst
the intermittent hiatus,
the unseen flaps of the black melancholy,
the flaps of the solo aches,
yearning for that palpable bind
which seem to elude her and delude her,
the flaps of this eerie malady
might have clenched her in a ploy
as in a slow enigmatic glide,
reverting her only the futile taste of sour,
as time adorns this surreal attire inside the dark paradise,
amidst the flaps of aching and longing,
the slow undulating flaps of this surreal sextain,
as she is still flapping scared and insecure,
slow yet slither,
mild yet intense,
she ensues all alone sans her thirst’s satiating potion,
lacking her quenching liquor,
indeed in search of her sole irradiance,
she is still flapping …
She is all weary and drowsy,
spinning and hovering,
spinning and sulking,
lacking her usual wings of hover,
lacking her sheen and fulgere,
in a hazy bizarre she is moving along,
in this dark paradise of dull, dread and drab,
inside this pitch black continuum of blight,
in weedy dizzy she is confused
as if on a enigmatic maze and in futile yearn,
unsinging her song of blithe
she seems to be in a dilemma,
befuddled by the murky time’s
unrequited lewd calling,
sans her sleep in a vague insomniac muse
of the wee hour libidos,
sans her sole irradiance,
as in a quest less maze of a butterfly’s path,
such a light trace of curves and arcs,
its thin trajectory holds,
the byzantine hover,
as she is flapping her wings to fly,
before she quaintly drops by,
to a muse solo and dull,
depicting a painted artistry
so deep and lull,
of this sextain lady’s solo melancholy
alongside the vagaries
of a befuddled black butterfly.
my random contemplations 