winter comforts

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the first drops felt like invisible threads
dangling down the sky in swift, translucent
colours, wetting the epidermis of the earth,
in the pattern of an old comforting habit,
worn-out and bare, as a cold wind against
the torn paths of my seldom-used lips.

you felt like a stolen figure of hope —
a sudden departure from white noise
in a vast welcoming gesture of your open
arms, your face flushed in a lightning
roar — your voice grew distant, and yet
your luminous eyes stayed in the dark.

i shared the softness of my limbs, loose
muscles, hollow bones, all the broken scars.

.

© Anmol Arora

Also read, devirginating desire and a twilight story

Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads, where I am hosting and paying homage to Mary Oliver and David Bowie
Image source (B. Prettau – WINTER RAIN)

 

don’t stay

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the lights go off in the section where
dusk meets the dark tidings of time
– limitless, engorged, stagnant –
whites to become whole at
this juncture of hope,
where no one stays
when shutters
have closed
down.

don’t
stay now
either, since
my unslept dreams
resound in emptied-
out hollows of the mind —
all that was sought, to be lost,
has been found at a decried end,
where staying is no longer in need.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

For With Real Toads’ Fussy Little Forms, where Nonets are the order of the day
Image source (Before the Dusk by Dana Dion)

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for over a month now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

an evening reverie

 

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what I shall make out in green and concrete –
the milk of this evening has gone rancid
in its own boiling heat – white blossoms curled
into their wombs – colored winds in this play.
what I shall discern of you, in your want –
an iris dusk shedding silken-haired light,
hung at the mere hint of one last goodbye.

.

For dVerse MTB

Image source (Arizona Dusk by Erin Hanson)

an ocean story

down the lanes of persistence and sweat,
there are waves lapping at the mind’s cliff,
seeking restoration of things wild and vain,

I see with my squid eyes the promulgation
of morrows bound to my brows, lives are tarnished
by the salt of this ocean of continuity, despite
a range of cul de sacs of mediocrity,

I ache to parch my thirst through drowning,
I seek virtues in the bleeding sun touched by
paints of this allegory. I have seen tempests
and treacheries, I have witnessed moats
of luxury, and the contrasts that lie within
these stories.

the vastness doesn’t exemplify loss but transcends it
into a lonesome lore,
I can feel the brush of drops and sand coming
awash, on my face, as my limbs stretch out
to become the shore, where

sirens sing and muses muse a melancholic hymn,

a reverie is lost and found, thus becoming –

it was meant to lose itself in turquoise ripples,
for the fates of my nature and your culture
are misaligned.

.
Linking it up with Midweek Motif at Poets United
*16 June: Linking it up with dVerse OLN

Instagram: mypeculiarself
Facebook: @aaha12345

sooner (than later)

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so it was in the cold that I held
those earnest embers of your words,

you were the marble idol
when black and white mingled
to cover the deep trenches of
my heart, your singular smile
was the only thing visible, only
sight on that evening of lights.

a caress on my neck had me
drugged, I was a shore for your
rising tide, I lost myself,

oh I lost myself that night, and
I am cold yet again, those embers
have a faint glow, and I am cold again

in the brilliance of my torn skin,
shivering in shadows of your smile.

I hold the new key, so new that it
is not yet familiar by the touch, of
my fingers, and I walk through
the door of this unknown circumstance,
I want to be home.

yes, I have fallen for you.
February comes soon.

.

Image source

Inspired from February by Dar Williams, written in consideration of writing prompt at With Real Toads.

Pilgrims of the Lost World

not a matter of survival, but of living,

as he sat looking at the window,

not at the scenes unwinding outside,

but the wooden slabs rotting away,

termites crawling, eating away,

consuming strength, leaving behind

just a hollow piece, ready to fall apart,

.

he rubbed his eyes swollen, and beet red,

not willing to go to sleep, for another round

of those nasty, nefarious nightmares,

when someone knocked, and sought his attention,

a stray pigeon, pecking at the dusty glass,

watching curiously, as if searching for

an unfound truth on the surface or within,

 .

he moved, his limbs trembling,

he caressed the image from the inside,

meeting a life, rejoicing in this meeting,

the two pilgrims of the lost world,

(but in different situations- free, trapped),

but every moment ends, as that one too,

.

the bludgeoning bird took a flight,

leaving him looking at the widening wings,

and longing to clutch the callous claws,

grabbing a way, to journey through life

.

* I haven’t edited it. I am being quite lazy. It is written in consideration of CSB Weekly Prompt Angst and Longing. Also sharing with dVerse OLN.

Photo Source

moon beam

The moon peered down at me through the haze, while I stool silent, lost in the reverent atmosphere. The sound of the waves was enriching and it filled my soul with a longing. And it seemed the tears would make an appearance but it wasn’t so. Their time hadn’t yet come because my longing wasn’t yet acknowledged by my soul. It was just a fleeting balloon away from the reach of my touch. But then the haze parted and the moon beam descended on me and I could see my flesh in the dark and I knew I was a breathing creature, not merely a conscious flying away in the oblivion. I recognized my longing and then those tears, I loathed and loved at the same time, spilled out but there were just a few of them. May be it was just meant to be so.

a piercing moon beam

all the past wounds torn open

realizing tears flow