Body Parts,
Have a wistful smell
Of a Mojave landscape.
The purplish anguish hovers,
In the nighscape of cosmos.
Reasons withdrawn and eyes opaque.
Dangling Hands,
Running exploring covering,
The tracks sodden with greif.
A ripe pleasure diffusing
In the gardens of penury.
Legs,
Searching beneath for a foundation strong.
Like a bird hovering without claws to handle,
Lanes of memories to step,
Getting lost in the city of fragrance.
A muddy sewage of clarity, despair
I stare at nothingness but moments.
Recalcitrant eyes,
Have long departed to the precipice of a belief.
Now stillness lay awake in the imagery
Of a poem called mother.
My fingers smell of her, the ink smiles in sadness.
Her senescent eyes still stares back,
As I look at the mirror, perhaps to look through.
Restless Ears,
They speak more than they can hear.
The two colluding to hear the one silence.
The distended silence of bruises,
The silence of terrified guts and throats
The silence of acceptance, sattire.
All they couldn't hear
The slow footsteps of death,
That came and went, came and went.
~Amartya
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
A collection of bits and pieces
PoesiaA collection of poems and pieces. From romance to nostalgia, to shivering thrill this book provides insight into so many perspective and sneaks through window into lives of others.
