She walks around wasted living
room in dimming urban lights,
Stuffing inside her two parallely
peeping primeval anti-beings-
Vertical cut blades of buffalo grass stands out in conceited smirks,
Weeping touch-me-nots in hurried self-piteous hideous shrinks.
A pretty damsel hovers over their pristine rows of sure-settled dewdrops..
Sucks in their misery sappy
traps to a null-some lull existence,
Like inertly seated mountainous
dark caves in confined solitude,
Deep laid springs inside gets
ushered for good by fatal quakes,
Exuberated silver-stream metaphors thus overflow.
Ohh! These metaphors,
why is it always a damsel in distress?
Metaphors made mundane,
now she recreates offbeat like her
For, this is a solemn salvation
freed from suicidal self-Satans’
Metaphors blistering through veins like her spurting self
Nothing ever changes this wholesome
null-some filling feel of nothing,
Passive pastures thus bear these dreamy
reds of shooting metaphoric buds
Basics never mutate, for radical
transforms of your birth bricks rarely occur
Hopeless hopes of future change is an active fool’s paradise lacking metaphors
Let the pretty damsel hover over their unfelt pristine rows of deep-settled dewdrops..
Perishing flesh feels time’s sickening
presence in its fastening noose,
Stillness of passed on inner
flame in frames proves but timelessness,
Silly, each ravaged mind of petty
battles wakes up to delusional timelines,
Pulls in their prideful strings of lavishes aborting freedom births of stillborns
Would the pretty damsel hover over their ever-to-be-formed pristine rows of any dewdrops?
p.s: first published by self on du-poetry on 27th November 2012 2:38pm