Wednesday, 22 February 2017

He Laughs At Me

He laughs at me; sometimes with me. In me.
All of my loneliness, desire and quest,
They dance to his mystical rhythms 

He, who holds their existence in his throat
As poison that neither leaves nor kills,
Or ancient stories traversing earth's fecund womb

He is the weaver and I, his first poem; his last line
At times, when dramas end and silences take over;
I see His history from his vertical eye

Etching itself into my soul; his flame created
The very creator of my world, and I 
And untouched by either, he curves my time

He of mysterious smiles and cardamom breath
Rips skin off deadness and wears shredded ennui
He who flirts with my step-sisters: loneliness, desire, quest

To whom, I write in every single line, a love note
He laughs at me, with me, in me
And sometimes, claims I am half his body

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