Don't throw hate over me
Don't push my dreams into the sea
I do breathe like you
Though I'm black in hue

It's not my fault at all
I'm black at his call

Black is sapphire like me
Black is Jasper like me
Black is menalite like me
Black is granite like me
Black is rose like me
Black is gloss like me
Dont throw hate over me
Dont push my dreams into the sea

I wanna fly in the blue
Though I'm black in hue
O my bro it's not my fault at all
I'm black at his call

Let me fly in the blue
Let me sing like the cuckoo
Though I'm black in hue
Let me fly in the blue
Let me sing like the cuckoo

Anxiety in our mind stops us to take proper decisions

In the present scenario،
            Only Sunday time
                      Is the finest thread


To sew unstitched relations

He left at 67.

No one knew
he caught the first light
through the window glass

smelled dew when autumn came
was joyous at the trills of birds
caught all the blue in his eyes
and smiled the sky was his.

No one knows
if it was too early to go.

He knew
he was briefly happy.

letter by letter,
     some of great lust,
     some of espionage,
     and secret meetings.

part film,
part theatre,
part fever dream.

we were woven together somehow,
      like we were characters in a book
      being read out-loud somewhere.

~
Ladies-in-waiting
reflecting on
a fragile state of mind

precarious creatures, these
hunters of coal
that outlines both
eyes and words

black paint for blue girls,
they pray in a circle
for their queen's wedding night
to be one of celebratory rapture

deep into the looking glass
they peer for a sign,
a soul, a stigma,
but cannot see
beyond their own glib faces

a universe ago they
caparisoned as pixies
in sunflower corsets,
twirling in a centrifugal forest

tonight in eclipse,
in their all-together,
they merely wear masks
of their former selves

the firelight dramatically shifts
in bacchanalia pratfall
--the oblong menace
of their smiles, fingers and navels
dancing to the age of Sideria
~

It must be dark
out here in the cold penumbra,
where mile after mile
no one smiles,

dots and loops,
dots and loops,
a kind of blissful nullity,
beautiful and pointless,

wearing at the edges
it almost stings,
seclusion unraveling
at the underground in us all,

aubade aberrations abound,
challenging the orthodoxy
of the troublesome
morning road,

but should this near-life experience
hydroplane toward
another mineshaft, it helps to know
less is less, not more.