I am always in awe of how things change over the fractured time. The silence change, the feelings change, the life changes. So do people around us. It a continuous process of evolving, that brings about this catastrophe of changes in humans with some getting hurt with existance of others.
The swirling smokes of caracas wishes rising upward through the shrivelled skies of blue time, which chokes, anticipate and even prevade the localities of scanty living. A mangosteen fruit ripening in this penury is a magician’s miracle of square meals a day.
You left as silently as you arrived.
The monsoon has slowly seeped into damp stale presence of mine as the cracks have fallen into the folds of life. A fold shaped womb that nurtures the cracks making them wider for me to fall across everytime. The everytime of always. An infinitesimal abyss of incoherence. A home of those living carcass.
A single part. Double parts, three parts and on and on. Every single life is made up of intermittent parts, with intervals of hollowness in between.
The incoherent emptiness that you let out in the asphyxiated air weeps.
The imprint of an intoxicated fragment,
The equivocated sultry of words, searching
Amidst the hue of framed photographs and incense red.
Papa says his shirt is misfit among all.
I often wonder which shirt is he talking about.
The misaligned celestial intoxication,
The brothel of bewitched curses,
A curvature full of sharp edges,
And an empty navel of forbidden wishes.