I leaned on the wooden frame of the door, carved blocks bearing the weight. I like the stillness that summer afternoons impose. Even the few beings that straddle by, appreciate and caress the quite.
I miss that bead of sweat rolling down the temple of my head, the cold that ensued with the gust of searing wind licking at that bead and the smile that was donned, the visage lying bare, for I was back at home.
I miss staring at the fleet of clouds, the young rushing quickly, eager for some distant encounter while the wise and old drifting, constantly reshaped by torrents of air.
I miss the touch of cold water, on a parched throat. Into the gullet, the fluid but flowed. And the delicacies, fuming an aroma to enshroud, dripping a mirage to drown.
A tear wells up, somewhere in my eye. When I recall, that quite night in daylight. For I was born, in a desert with an abundance of will and a thirsty appetite. My heart clenches a bit, from a hopeless dream, where I could relive a past, where I'm lonely, yet free.
Well I'll try. Cold wind here would be life in general, how it leaves one with so many gaps, voids, with the person pining to fill the numerous voids. The absence of fur coat might indicate the lack of support structures for a person, the silk representing the potential of being rich/ resourceful/ happy. You can also find it meaningful when the words are interpreted literally.
Pale wry crescent would be the moon in literal sense, or friends/ people close to oneself; whose light gets dimmed by the lights of a city (along with other things) or merely the street light obscuring it, in this case or the people close to you get overshadowed by the fleeting infatuation towards other people. Both can be considered a recluse on a background of darkness/ something that leads to aversion by it's nature, causing imperfection (blotching) of either.
Subjected to such conditions, one might commit a deed considered not so prideful in a community (be it addictions, crime, self harm, etc). The cracked feet (mentioned above) leaving an imprint (audible thumps) on the minds of people that dissolves all the deeds (be they good or indifferent) from past, crafting a new sculpture in their minds. Or it can be the narrator walking a road, bare feet, with no fur coat to shield from the cold, under a street light, in hours with no one around, where even his injured feet make audible sounds.
Thumping heart with failures would be the person trying to hold on, despite all that's going on. Jaundiced eyes indicate diseased person/ alcohol addict/ pathologic vision or view of the world, rimmed red would be diseased person/ red from crying/ the blood rushing to the eyes so the person can heal his version of this new world to a sustainable one (like the one in it's past). No corners left to cry would be helplessness eliciting itself, with no corners for tears to well up or no corners left to hide and cry. Dry lips might be a thirst for happiness/ love. Or it can be the cold constricting peripheral vessels with heart failing to supply the hands, feet, etc., with the person already sick (jaundiced eyes,etc) and poorly fed (dry lips).
Shadow of light would indicate the person hidden in spotlight/ hiding a part of self unknown to people close to it, etc/ splitting oneself into an undesirable part (shadow) that is derived from the mellow, decent person (light). No passerby/ people encountered in life can take a peek/ sustain an observation, at this part of self or no passerby can bother after you discard the cluster of emotions related to that. There would be not much crying/ pain/ agony/ remorse after leaving all the empathy behind (no rivulets to dry). Or the narrator finds shelter under the street light, all alone in the cold night, with the body devoid of all water, and the person too tired/ dehydrated to even cry for his/her/their sorry state.
Cold strides to the victim, leaving the humane part behind, the psychopath hunts, on a winter's night. Or the narrator is forced to commit crimes to survive, for the past behaviour of good will and morals could only,at best, get him/her/them to a state like this.
The choice would be decided by the title. Which one would you choose?
Cold wind riddled me With numerous pines Tugging at the silk With no fur coat to hide On a winter's night Another poor guy
Peering at that pale wry crescent Overshadowed by a street light A sweet recluse Blotching the dark sky On a winter's night
Audible thumps From cracked feet Echoing in the quiet Crafted On a winter's night
A thumping heart Pumping cold failures At extremities Suffusing Jaundiced eyes Rimmed red With no corners left to cry And a pair of lips That were always dry Aah another winter's night
Under the shadow of light I stood With no passerby To gawk at And no rivulets to dry
This winter's night With cold strides I left a human behind.
There were lights then. There are lights still. Cold wind scraped my skin, turning the environ into a numb playground. As I closed my eyes I found myself down that road again. I sat, comfortable, finding an escape from that desolate place, no matter how ephemeral it might be. It'd be tempting to convince one's self, to explain one's act and affect as something driven by the cravings of a physical form. Have you inflicted this curse upon yourself as well?
I was traveling, shielded from that encroaching cold by the hides of a vehicle. The hearth harkens, to a child's wishful world making one of it's last stands. The dance of shadows, choreographed by the alliance of street lights and the moving silence, was my childhood's trance. I wondered then, I wonder still.
On the backseat of a two manned automobile, I recalled that sober trance. With cold wind slithering beneath the layer of a product of tanned leather, donned with a grey tinge and a mockery of shoulder guard, sold under the pretense of a jacket, with a numb face's embrace, I bowed my head and saw that dance again. I had chains then, I'm chained still.
One can hope to capture that exultation in the tangle of signs, only to realise a failure. It wasn't the exhilaration you might experience from the warm comforting arm wrapped around self, under a blue vista, over the burgeoning fresh scent spewed fresh on mornings from a meadow. It wasn't the escalation achieved in a lover's embrace, the self consumed in the carnal desires. Nay, it was neither the joy of an achievement, nor of a sweet recollection. It never bordered around the helplessness that lies like a shroud over a span, turning grief into a way of life. The feeling that you might experience, when there's nothing to crave and a glistening blade rests in your palm, waiting to lick the wrists red, wasn't the one holding my heart then. Neither it emanated the taste that dark deeds leave, sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet. I couldn't let it go then, I let go now.
It was a premonition of sorts, yet I can't remember the ones I held close, in that moment. In the bleak darkness at the end of the curvature in the road, I could finally sense light. Would you give it your cold stare, would you shiver, cower in fear? Or would you accept it like a promise, a promise kempt, a promise delivered? With head lying in a warm pool on the hard asphalt, I let the heavy lids droop. Some distant cry, to hold on, to never let go. O how the fool betrayed my perfect blue, painted with a red hue.
I think I'll fall When the petrichor thick in the air, The sweet fragrance of death Lingering Over freshly sliced blades of grass And the odour of decaying petals Gets swallowed By the aphrodisiac aroma of your flesh.
I think I'll fall When luscious moans In the cold quite night Of a winter's charm Turns me deaf To the gentle clanks Of a wind chime Dangling in the dry hot torrents Of a summer afternoon.
I think I'll fall When your eyes could pierce through When your tongue can taste trickling blood When your nose can smell the layer of fear When your ears can hear the echoing throes When your fingers caress the shriveled hide
I think I'll fall Only so you can catch hold And break me a little more.
The chains rattled With tender wrists tugging Standing erect, a thought grew.
With a dark brown gleam, In her parted lips Violaceous lids I plunder let go a dainty tongue Of another and a surrender mascara stream. My lips give As I licked a soft squeeze The crimson coat to her lobes that was bit. And that neck crease
Stiff nipples An evanescent grip Were devoured on her With fingers mound In her And a belly Mouth riddled with She but kisses Growled. all around.
Choked throat Between my lips Sounded lies the clit A proffer trapped For her With each Parted gentle thrust Lids curled lips I had a echoing moan Stiff tighter offer. she wrapped
Which one shall you choose? A superficial or a deep bruise
Beyond this beautiful horizon lies a dream for you and I This tranquil scene is still unbroken by the rumors in the sky But there's a storm closing in voices crying on the wind The serenade is growing colder breaks my soul that tries to sing and there's so many many thoughts when I try to go to sleep But with you I start to feel a sort of temporary peace.