"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
Lekhoker Onamika
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
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