Monday, April 11, 2016

From The Lair...

I'm dry.
The ink has seeped
Through the loopholes of sanity,
From the fabric
Of my rusty imaginaire...
I eat dust
At the forlorn windowsill,
Where the dawn once sat
For a solaced chat,
Over a cup of ginger tea....
I shrivel
In the unraveling
Of the summer's rage,
Quietly wishing away
The moist token
Of last rites,
That the Earth pushes my way...
And all I long
As a solitary respite,
Is to be a song
In your head...
One that you shall hum,
Despite yourself,
And resuscitate
For a day...
Only then, shall I lie
With uncensored peace....
In the musty grave
Of your last page....

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