It is a clear, windy night...
My window is ajar...
The candle is barely lit...
The strong wind is threatening its very existence...
But I can't close the window...
For I want to send my sonnets...
They keep bouncing back...
As if the window was the net of an infinite tennis court...
And my sonnets and verses the ball that carries a message...
I am not giving up...
The stronger the wind, the more verses I write...
A strong wind is no match for the heart of a poet...
My pen will keep defying the elements...
If your eyes are about to close...
And you suddenly hear  the words "good night" whispered in your ear...
It means I was able to defeat the wind...
That was the match point...

the full moon is a fresh cut catalina
mariposa lily that you placed in a vase
next to your virgencita de guadalupe
(the one you hung by my little bed, I'd yell
when you'd ask me to dust off stuff)

in the childhood  blanket of my dreams, the inquiry glittered

When the paintbrush of the day
is tucked away
and the sunset dipped
in the forest of the night
the moon wanes and waxes
down the hills of stars  
atop that shady wrap.

Who peeps in
where the sleeping beauty wakes
is any one guess
nor it's a amateur's business.

Far from the half lit astral canopy
any bucket lowered  
deep down on the ground
into a barrowed well of colours
comes up with a Joseph of Cannon
the firesome story goes on.
The same fire burner
is also the same fire extinguisher
Alexander the Great intrigued life water
cool serene cup of Ab-e Hayat elixir!

8/8/2022

frost seeks a home in
the abyss of my bones

preserved in her colour
the red of my heart

her sadness is my purple
sky pouring misery

my flesh is now silver
without her touch

bustling streets are barren
without her presence

and hers is still a memory
fading away

dying as i die




@writeweird