Prickling ashes demand itching,
Sour eyes demand flushing,
But rather, I prefer cuddling,
May it turn a dream?
Their Eyes on my clogged eyes,
Their Ears ready to hear my cry,
Dry smiles on the highest scale,
to broke me into soul that’s frail.
And then,
Neither Hershey nor Cadbury,
Neither texting nor facebook,
Neither MAXX nor Durex,
Neither rock nor blue,
Can dare to sort out
my futile frustration.
Eyelids spread and reunite with disgust,
As if still sleepy after night-of-lust.
No tea, no coffee will be served on bed,
Not till those images are completely dead.
Varied light follows throughout the day,
And I am in same darkness all through my way.
A hold on the bench of ash and fire,
Assembles me with the same set of liars.
And then,
Neither Antiquity nor Teacher’s,
Neither Paulo Coelho nor Sidney Sheldon,
Neither porn nor jerking off,
Neither Wills nor Winston,
Can dare to sort out
my futile frustration.
No comments:
Post a Comment