Saturday, 28 May 2016

Yesterday

Your voice like cool waters on smooth pebbles
Engulfs our embrace in muted warbles
This silence of a gentle gurgling brook, 
Shapes stories in my mini-soul book

Eyes, fingers, lips in a trance perpetual
spread flowers on a sandalwood pyre
Stories of surrender to an unrembered ritual
Worshiped at the altar of fire, destiny's desire

I died last night in deep throes of nerves 
I was born at the dawn of whimsical swerves 
I write today a story of skin on my soul
And my book remains so full, so full!






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