there is something
wonderfully happy
yet sad about us
.
but we are happy
while they are not
so should we bother?
.
for those who never
dwell in the happiness
of others are a sad lot
who breeds calamity
and misery and thus
they dwell in sin
.
they are not worthy
they are but intruders
they will never fit in..
.
.
.
you inspired me
to walk the path with you
you exuded
a zest quite unlike others
you are cute
ever more so vulnerable
when gushed
with overwhelming pride
as you rubbed
your conservativeness
all over me
I love unconventionality
you inspired me
and thought me worthy
.
let us walked on..
.
.
.
fate
glued you to me
with no plasters
but with an avalanche
of sticky sand
all over our feet
.
fate
glued you to me
with no binders
but with an avalanche
of sticky wind
all over our skin
.
and we hugged
the fate of a lifetime
my sweet ocean
without footing back
to that stickiness
we actually dread..
.
.
.
I was no king
when I made you queen
and the courts of Christendom
were outraged
when the damsels and jesters
and the learned is flattered
the bishop and knights
went on the defensive
.
I was no king
when I made you queen
and the courts of Christendom
went berserk
when God and spirit
and the sky is flattered
they stopped us
at the drawbridge..
.
.
.
I watched that dew
streaming off the leaf
onto my fingertip
.
I watched that dew
streaming off my fingertip
into the pond
.
it fascinates me
to watch it drip
as its ripple sparkles the water
.
but I can’t hold it..
.
.
.
I find it strange
that you requite missing me
with mingling
that you equate concern
with intrusion of trust
.
I really don’t know
.
I find it strange
because I requite missing me
with solitude
and I equate concern
with unwavering devotion
.
I really don’t know
.
I find it strange
that we are in a deadlock
but solitude strays some minds
the same way that
mingling strays some hearts
.
I really don’t know..
.
.
.
the soft bristles
might be responsible
for the color spread
but the end
result is achieved
by our thoughts
our own feelings
our own composition
and brush control
.
no one else
should be blamed
for the horror
we are in..
.
.
.
I orchestrated
a wily sausage symphony
overturing with baton in hand
flicking and mimicking
the conductor
with stark passion
at times salivating to
smother the heatwave
whilst you lay back
culminating candidly
over the extended version
of my hard copy
feeling the crescendo
towards the finale
shuddering uncontrollably
over my masterly direction
till peace
finally gave you in..
.
.
.
your tongue
lit up my night
and opened up sensations
of glorious sweet
.
I twitched
and moaned and growled
with your continual relish
of my torso
.
with you
I went on a night safari
a wandering ritual
that bound our intimacy
.
changing me
into a nocturnal animal
whilst cradling a wanting
of your cheekiness..
.
.
.
bronze vessels are prized
because of those little green patina
that forms on its surface
the same way that
our vessel of love is prized
because of those little green patina
we grew to accept..
.
.
.
