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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