The rivulet, the gushing stream bounced and swayed
Like a colicky infant.
Didn’t I love you, sleeping in your banks, pure?
Hiding myself so deftly in your little pockets of silence?
Why then, today, when I ran to touch you, hot, raw, burning,
You ran away instead, fearing my coagulated blood,
my frozen tears, my milk stuck on your door-frame, my breath,
shot up, in spurts, that has known you like the grandma’s old tale,
Like the lone, dazzling truth?
Come, enter through my rich brown, derelict doors,
Still open for you. Settle slowly amid the thickets,
Soaking in the smudged, docile light setting in,
The skyline of my wants still eager, firm with primroses,
Brown, yet not dying still, with music, sharp, yet blurry,
The details obscured, yet the pleading, the little lightning
Robust, plump, hammering.
Will you burn it, like the rest of my thwarted dreams galore,
The pregnant ashes of my sighs
that once I had closed your palms with?
Like the stubborn, wailing infant, eyes rolling, fingers tossed,
You had wanted small tufts of the dried, golden grass
Growing mammoth, fleshy, in a mountainous pile.
Today, between my calloused palms, the ashes dwindle,
And let out an air, musky, choking, yet again.
The verdant spring, the primroses, the half-baked love songs
Burn me like the old, bloody embers, the fungi strong, shadowy
Smeared all over like a beauty in continuum.
Come over, do not run, what is there to hide?
Lie down, flat, on my back, as I float on your scalding waters,
Doused with the dark grey of our self-same songs.