I can almost sense the mayhem
Creeping into my skin
Shooting up, like a stabbing syringe.
Muddling the threads
And suddenly,
All loose strings seem
To make love in chaos.
Those colours –
Bright, surreal spasms
Of intoxication at once, dejection the next.
Correlative images,
Clashing, rambling, with a persistent drone
Toying, with a silken thread ‘round my throat.
An abyss, churning before my eyes.
My fingers, teasing fire.
~

You are a puzzle with contrary corners
And no two pieces alike.
You look gorgeous, when strewn.
Reeking of turmoil, as a whole.

You talk of distorted magic
In your ever-sardonic tone;
The magician, with a lopsided smile,
Consuming me with words –
All flesh and bones.
You are afraid of the threads,
Should they untangle on their own;
Your magic waned to vestiges,
Leaving your scars, exposed.

But hush! Where is the rush?
We can pretend some more.
Swim on in oblivion, and wait
To be washed ashore.
We can overlook the tangle; cast it aside
To count the orange leaves
And calculate our sighs.

15 April 2016

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