from the Old Tomes

Wild weather theatrics
feed off the surge plank
An ocean of occurrence, spilling, spilling…
Sensuality
turns ballerina
Gliding over yellowing pages
that flutter like a rapid snail
Telling tales of a continuum
graced upon a historic season
of orange and blossom
Love strips herself
barely naked
in a sanctuary on the terrace
The world is tucked away
in layers of concrete beneath her feet
There are always great probabilities
Somewhere by her shoulder
Imaginary souls walk parallel universes
and lose their ways to communion
She sits , violently jubilant
Savoring a mouthful of sky
Awaiting an advent
“I am Godot”
there is no one here
Love chokes
on a June
There’s a star in solitary confinement
sitting on her palm
She sits still
Wondering
She sits still
Wandering
Studying pretty pictures in the puddle
but tear-stained
lies this narrative
Love smothers herself over a canvas
crayons, charcoal and one drop of cold blood
The postbox is a conspiracy
and the courier travels distances long
to reach its destination
Brown paper packages
and instant notes pour out
through the undarned blue
in her head
She seats herself
on little paperboats
full of confessions and lyrics
and a quirk for beautiful strangers
Sailing
Sailing in respite
from one moment
to another
Love seeks a shore
for she knows she has none
She might come by
your twilight
Will you remember the sign?




devotica
from the Old Tomes
dateless