The Golden Carol

imageprocessor

Smokes of airy venom fade away with puffs of breeze,
What more could be done to warrant this suffocative displease.
Creaking across the gallantry of timeless hoods,
Spreading my zip so that the world could swoon,
Another of those tizzy poetic moose,
After all… fifty is the year of the Golden Goose…

Fifty summers, gone by sweating in ease,
Sun shining with cruelty across my cannon’s sleaze,
Walking the walk after memories fail,
Another summer on the eve for only to perish in trail,
Never conscious of this micro scheme,
May I, for once, be in tune with the plaintive heal…
The one touch of sultry humidity,
Life and death in no certainty,
No certainty…

Fifty winters in sneezes and coughs,
The zephyr working to alight the age’s norm,
For only one icy eon, I seek solace,
Never is it ever too late…
Blow again, one more time, oh you momentary flame,
After all, after all, fifty is the year of an alteration too pale…
An alteration too pale…

Autumn, the wittiest one, where art thou?
Seek, I do, to dip in your lavender too dry,
Immersed into your totality, one small midnight never mine,
If only could the blisters drift me to a land unseen,
Live, I could, in total peace obscene…
Morning showed me the day,
Alas! Never did it show me the way…
Never did it show me the way…
Never … Show me the way…

time-travel2-photo-courtesy-of-junussyndicate-on-deviantART

Says I, morning never shows the night;
If only I could feel the depths in spite,
Beacon upon one sling of shutter delight,
In and out she passed without my limelight;
If only could darkness show me the light,
I would sacrifice in all my plight,
After all, yes, fifty is the year of the Golden Goose…
Fifty years too much… Fifty years too less…

Spring comes with her blooms bringing the fiftieth prize,
Says she, is not thee my only ever reprise?
Down and out, meditative of moments passing by,
Oh how I wish, I was one mere butterfly;
For it is fifty years too long; fifty years too short,
Not at the least different to how it was within home,
All that changed outside in a home they called the Tranquil Dome..

If only…
If only, I knew the value of now,
If only…
How transparent would life seem in a treaty at Tao!

Blissful here and now,
For fifty is the year of hefty returns, they say…
Opening of dreams beyond dreams, they mean
Closing of reality that sings, oh yes, I see…

After all, yes, they do say, fifty is the year of the Golden Goose,
The year liberating all my woes…
The Golden Goose; but one dot in this pillar of whirlpool,
If only, I could stay to live the planted jewel…
If only, I could touch the mayhem inside this fool…

After all, fifty is here; the Golden Goose is here,
After all, life is here, the nestle of unburying has arrived…
After all… Oh yes, after all…

10392_abstract_black-white

Advertisements

That Rainy Night, when I met You

That Rainy Night, when I met You…

ws_Rainy_Night_1680x1050

Darkness mounting into the mood too soon,
Holdeth me apart little after noon,
May not realize in dreams of faults,
Errors skipping minds slow by the mount…

Of wonder, lust stands no far,
Downright precious into the shore of mar,
What is it—two blunt shoddy affairs,
Not once the mind rests in peaceful despair…

Oh, so beyond the horizon of loving kiss,
May not stand in the world of glitter and bliss,
For no reason lies in the bed of glitch,
Lying there—motionless, at peace unflinching crusts of stern oblique…

Motions blossoming stems of lunacy,
Catching straws once in this nadir galaxy,
Eyes drippy into the gooey fans of barbarity,
Still and sound, unmoved by the sounds of novelty…

For one moment is too far from now,
Up and wayward, tranquility dreaded echoing the wow,
Not once looking back to the soul blabbering tears of ounce,
Dripped and drowned, cascaded into blending this frown…

Eyelids sleepy into the hells of muddled paradise,
That sheen glowing into layers of ornamented merchandise,
Closest to ecstasy of Nature’s chastity,
Mind ceases into empty vessels of silent sanity…

Clear as the sparkles underneath Yamani,
How blessed to be in the lap of divine morbidity,
Misery, the sweet dish of dining decoration,
Heaven, the actuality of mind’s purple vision…

8

Yet, darkness mounted into the mood too soon,
Holding me apart little after noon…
That rainy night—when I met you.

Image credit–PSD Collector/Exdigecko and Wallpaperstock