Another piece of my death,
Today afresh,
Filtering affliction renewed,
Oozing out a mouth, shrewd,
Brewed in conspiracies of desire,
Lavishly dressed in mauves,
A refined self, the muse,
Immaculate as self,
And yet burdened in rage…

Art, pieces dead,
Out from a shattered heart,
What else of my death make,
When none at stake?

Tranquilities of this spring,
Primordially gloated in me,
A sunbird, crimson, if you like,
Colliding the nectars of,
Red silk cotton,
And through each time,
Oh! But lament the cause,
For it dies yet again…

Sensual shimmers pasted,
These ever – mouldering walls,
Never together stood,
Disappearing cabins,
Humbly I claim,
Deaths to my feet,
Numerous as bees,
Until cocooned within,
Stings and honey too,
And yes mazes, the intellect
Happy as I see,
None other before,
None thereafter,
But each death,
Closeted, treasured and me!

I am the death,
And the life,
Fear yourself,
For you live!
Need I say?
I am nostalgic again!

Bring me fresh apples,
And kiwis of lust,
Until in my chamber I rust,
Pour on me then,
The sacred wine,
And the maze?

Yes! Suck the honey out,
Golden position of spirits high,
Tender on your lips,
As they come close,
Molten in pleasure,
Carved in fame,
But lost in vain…

Over to you!
I sanctify,
The longing to die…



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