byanjonborno

"Odd how easily you can forget your hand is on fire" It is like insomnia Creeping silently Unnoticed Through crevices He wore like the sunset Set on fire. Fingertips char, They become black Like the day burning Into a dark night Fathomless like he was. Pull your hand away Yet it swells Like his eyes Hidden Under the crimson Of fiery devastation. He remained stuck Where strands Of hopeless faith Cradles candles burning On rusted horizons. He is nothing Except a wasted pronoun Fitting no where But within the blank spaces Of dishevelled poetry. His eyes were fire The more you look, The more you burn. His heart was ice Freezing with every breath You breathe on his brown chest. How odd it is To forget your burning soul

From shacks selling rainbows and false ceilings. Kolkata, Amidst the homologous monotone of fading faces is the kind of solitude that keeps disappearing with every piece of dilapidation that ruined you and ruined me. I would not blame the fog or the white blanket of invisible snow over the stars on the river gleaming like droplets of light dripping from the wet sun. I would not call it atrocity, just atrophied obnoxious obscurity of the orthodox cynicism of fireflies camouflaged as lanterns,that sail around the moon looming over your nude brutality ,now secured within your sequined handloom protecting your bare chest. Darling, I have spent nights waiting for the gold of the sky to melt into precarious orange and then into the flaming red that you wear on your lips. I have crossed miles and scampered through moist,damp mysterious meadows of dawn and dusk merging together to touch every freckle on your burnt skin. I have loved each drop of sweat on your bosom,like dewdrops kissing th

For my baby crush. "When she grows older, she will look at you and think- this old lady used to be my best friend." Hi. Remember me? You are all grown up and beautiful. And taller. You wear heels now,wonderful shades of black,brown and colours I don't recognise anymore. But I recognise you. The red of your fluffy  cheeks have been replaced by a subtle, lingering blush , your hair falls down on your shoulder like a dark waterfall. Your eyes shine like a pair of stars. You were only two and a half when I saw you for the first time. Your pink hairband matched the colour of your dress as you ran along the school corridor. "Mithi...!" Ma'am had called you from a distance. So that was your name. Mithi. Days grew up into a Year and there you were- standing  outside my stall with Ma'am. It was the first Saturday of December and tradition called it "Carnival". It was a stupid game, I recall -tailing some kind of an elephant or a mouse. Althou

From horizons kissing threads of sunshine on narrow moors. My Storyteller, Here's to you Sir. Your naive brutality and marvelous pagodas of white darkness. Here's to your lacerating black sheet of curly hair. Befriend your muse, will you? Did you? Play the harp, I have dropped out of the boring puzzle games they play. You seem more ductile, more perfumed. Your eyes betray women and a few men and, my God, so honestly. Here, Sir, I give you the name you celebrate so often, I give you the spark you boast of, the charm you wear on your sleeves. Take them but use them not. No, not against me. Don't hold me responsible for the damage made to your roots. Let me confess- I have been dazzled by your inner beauty(the one underneath your clothes). Mister, your white shirt fades to a colour I don't recognise, a burgundy blue, I guess. Unchangeable. What is it like, pray, when the sun turns black and the night a blazing yellow? Tell me. Fake a story,that'll do. I had belie