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  • anavil 1w

    Chaos clutched me, winds etched your name on my heart. Blue crystals followed me everywhere, till you filled me with molten gold.



     It rained like art spilt out of a vein of mine. 

    Light passed through me insanely.

    You held me faster than that.



    You cuddled with the clouds. 

    Let no fear shout.

    With you I stay , in a nest of noon tales.


    You brought eyesight to this blind stars. 

    A blanket for the sky.


    The night's nectar trickled down to my roots. 

    You planted a kiss over summer and it closed its eyes. Winter was born a few minutes later.


    I grew up with greener shoots. And the crowd left. 


    Claps stopped. Curtain fell. 



    But you broke truth into my ears by saying 




    " this is the last and the only heaven ,



     this is the first and the final hell, 




    and you are my only peace".
    ©anavil

  • anavil 4w

    And I understand your breathing. While you decipher my dandelion like moods.

    You blow me away near the mountain , I float over your shoulders.
    Who knew --

    Love was an experienced stabber ;
    Never missed the heart.

    Darting right at it like a shooting star.

    And you spill something like a murderous art between the membranes of my mind.

    What a daily disaster , are this painter's fingers?

    That which colour these forevers , always solid in the rolling of these best kisses , my daily bread.

    And then darkens the path. This broken chandelier ; when drops dead at our feet.

    Two blind lovers , touching the walls printed with a ' broken braille '.

    Finding a stairway to heaven.
    And all these queens who woke on the other side of the bed of a tall heap of garbage like man. Thinking of calling him maybe : Delilah. You sick art , piece of shi- hah. Lustre , is your other name. And he mashed up a peaceful sky , came home running, said " today I fooled the innocence of this blanket that was following my head everywhere ".

    By God's grace I have a better heart to be my happiness. And you have a better option to slake your thirst.

    Kafka on the shore ; slowly broke down.
    A pilgrimage to the face that inspires me. And your dirt and hatred evaporates as he holds me in all my damaged senses and erases all the scars you gifted me.

    But these clocks , never cool down , but time leaves no memory unturned and our love swallows the autumn of an evergreen adoration. And we are infinite. In this night. Somewhere I'll breathe this same A and end my chatter with the same N. And you'll be far. But you'll know.

    ©anavil

  • anavil 6w

    Sparks flew in my sky.
    How your lips sing a motherly lullaby.
    Fixed in the garden of magnolias.
    You were a Roman statue, so intricate filled with remorse.


    I surrounded you with some sunlit smiles.
    You closed your eyes at the flashes.

    Beware of my love , you don't need any more scratches.

    Fluttering in all directions like butterflies.
    Our failing moons, our sun had a crown , after many tries.

    Summaries of our youth inscribed in the fatal flowers.
    Tell me when did you learn to hold a finger, to hold a hand , to submerge in foreign pain ?
    I gather you over my scarf.

    You flew like the dust of a forgotten art.
    Praying to my bluish wonders, you seeked a soft acceptance of her spirit.


    And we leaped like kids on a hill , rolling down , getting up in dirt.

    Oh home is not far,and you look better without a shirt.


    We ran brave , we ran gentle , we ran mischievous. Silenced the noises of our pain echoing in our heads.

    A discovery of kissable days.
    Was not a lonely adventure.



    ©anavil

  • anavil 10w

    Where is this place ? Full of grace. 

    The one you belong to. 

    Where hides the pink moon our hearts howl to? 

    The colours of your land are vivid with your imagery , by my senses, traced. 

    With just one touch,  All the prior dirt on my mind ; erased.


    A sanctuary of birds , surround that place. Your eyes, a magnificent maze.

    As a banyan tree with little homes for free and fragile creatures. 


    In you I found all my eminent teachers.

    How Earth would name all the starts , some stars , maybe some children with The sky. 

    Do we have to be loud and tell the crowd , that this air without your fragrance feels dull and the clouds about to cry.


    Do I have to make this very easy for my world to understand, that all my love has slowly gifted power to both of us , power of serenity.

    Would I be , watching a skeleton dream?



    When I recite to you ,


    The story of a little home.


     Of curtained windows , and the swimming sunlight between them. 


    Creating miniature mosaics on our floors.


    The story of my soft decorations for your bright smiles.

     The story of us. 

    ©anavil

  • anavil 12w

    These veiled and faded memories you silence before they spill out of the tea stained borders,
    the attempts of time to wash your tongue clean of all the words you resonated with at the touch of an even sharper tongue, fails. And all these years question you , why rubbish betrayals , are painted on the insides of your heart, why some perpetrator of peace , becomes an eternally unfinished romance. And instead of adoring the little rosebud bunches tied around your hands , you prefer dancing on some withered funeral flowers?

    ©anavil

  • anavil 12w

    How often do I lose all the summaries to standards of nothingness? I create anecdotes to stay awake in the morning disguised as little matchbox homes , set on fire , the roads more visible. Amen of your harsh words, was but a flower of gentleness. Be all my , weaknesses remembered by your appetite , if it fills you with happier days, let it be.

    It cuts my bones and i can't decide if a crack or a fracture is needed to avail the remedy of self help. I get angry at my naïve silence , my loud ever existent care for escaped birds.

    They don't mean anything to me. They mean everything to me, after glasses being broken, doors being shut, eyes blinded , voices ; unheard.

    But, I can't open the courts of my heart to ignorant touches. Goodbyes feel heavier and then all of a sudden the lightest feeling in the world.

    Every walkin' out of unfinished reasons. And childish blames are read by me under the sun word by word. Till my eyesight break at the edges.

    Whatever love gets robbed too soon, might better be buried in graves. Still, beware those dead zombies walk out of their caskets , splits your experiences into summer and winter at the same time.

    It is clear to see, but not prudent to say. It is the beauty of collateral damage of all our adored and hated yesterdays. That announces our tomorrow to be somewhat foolishly , an aching history's smiling science.

    ©anavil

  • anavil 13w

    And I roll my scrolls in lilac legality, gentle genesis of our mayfly lives.

    The trial of youth , a tension of being twenty seconds ago , the murdered dream of a child.

    You have a structural dignity to deal with. I have a functional fondness for life.
    The bridge is burning and London is dancing with my bones , barricading the nuisance of sentimentality.

    It is an understanding of the seven oceans layered in my eyes.
    A freedom for broken winged minds and flying laughter in a prison of modern sensibility.

    And it's a break down of facts for you to break through the inventive fabric of love.
    Companions of trees , on December nights , flowering tears in the sky.

    An age of innocence submerged slowly, sunken lowly in your deserted heart. The utopia gifted by toxicity. Fallen into the arms of a known ignorance.


    ©anavil

  • anavil 13w

    You were looking for a better sleeping pillow over my riddled breasts breathing fire and harmony. Wine tasting and chocolate clouds over your mountains echoing into a luscious laughter of two unaltered pieces of the same sorrow.

    How hollow I would have been without the chime of your voice like a helix around my bones. A streak of light covered in raspberry and roses , you stitch in that lonely strand of my hair. When I'm in ashes and my back faces you. You comb all the knots in my forehead , simplify my twisted tongue and tales.

    At once , collapsing , were my lips into your minty breath , sugar dust flew at the bottom of your throat as you sighed my name. I cried in furry frozen caves.


    And tell the dragons to worship the fire you planted in me. Singing all the love out of you. Till you make music out of your fingers brushing against the harp strings stitched between those thighs of mystery.

    You pulled all the dark webs out of my head. Forests glare at the walls of our home. Birds scatter in my window. Smiles surround my belly and it fills it up with butterflies. Your fields of love are never empty. And you pour out sleep for the rest of me.




    ©anavil

  • anavil 16w

    Lily pads , loyal labour force. You migrate southwards. When these urban winds , coughed an abandoning resolution. Your debts, and your broken fists.  Your child cries for his mother's milk , you search for her amongst the wooden arrangement , burning , cremation of her tireless footsteps.
    Were you so invisible to me? That I looked right through you. And you became a silent agony carrying your little lives , how little? Than mine? And why? In those cloth bundles.
    You sleep over railway tracks , with your family. Waiting for a new day. Or a new death. I don't own a ground to apologise , to sympathise with your hunger pangs.

    I die with so much garbage under my sheets. And you still search for a cement block to make your soft pillow. Less harsh than this injustice.

    How could we explain your seemingly dangerous situation , and call it life's harsh side.

    My mind disagrees, it's not fate , destiny to live in poverty. It's something more bigger more darker like inequality. Which is protected by us. Your supposedly listeners. Which are guarded by the selfish saints.
    ©anavil

  • anavil 16w

    Abandonment , Abuse , Apologies

    The hurt glows , grows out of your eyes.


    Just a peak at the depth of love.


    And you shiver with memories.




    some trauma of juvenile days.

    crack itself open.

    And you drip with apologies.

    screams of all inappropriate touches at eight.

    everyone, Quiet at once. Questioned by none.



    You disappear before the mirror.
    Crawl under the comfort of your arms.


    No one remembers your name.

    And

    you become


    Fond of this silence.
    ©anavil