Unorthodox Membrane

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Impalpably numb,

the perilous fate forms a prism,

not made of 7 colors,

but shades of ivory and crimson,

of yellowish amber and velvety hazel,

a prison.

I so not wish lucidity and nobility,

For that crucial ways only take its form,

within my vicinity,

within my obnoxious reaction towards your…

…your shrewd lies and futile convictions,

We are friction; we are fiction.

A bazaar of your pompous fiesta,

crush the vessels of the leaf that breathes the air,

to make alive a rose that holds no fragrance,

to your insatiable senses.

Like a knight without his shining armor,

a woman with her sodden blue gown, her voice turned to clamor,

behind the knight.

As the serenity of your stoic turns into a poignant reminder,

a reminder of how your notion depicts the story in an oracle,

that you, as the Medium, augustly crush within the barrels of my soul.

Your fragrance lingers around the Equinox of Mondays,

and Tuesdays filled itself with Scarab beetles,

as the Wednesday’s carcass crystalline the lies you bequeath me.

Your fecund Thursdays shall perish together with your riddles,

My Fridays around you; so solemn and ludicrous,

Saturdays; a parade of you around a raucous market,

lining up for obscurities, orange apples and red oranges,

pink Bananas and yellow guavas, a threshold for the confused and anguished,

Sundays was ambiguous, for your Invisibility was my aura,

Your godlike gestures were only a proviso in being formidable,

You use to fill me with such Awe.

Your body is quaint as it fades away from the remnants of my memories,

I’m becoming Blasé of the recurring events in my brains,

about the archaic, of our medieval times of glamour,

I was being Whimsical when I say that my empire was built around your discourse,

by force, I reduce myself to your being, a definite Holocaust,

a mass scale of murder on the debris of my exploded bubble,

that lived the longest decades in the middle of the very stomach,

that churns and turns the mystique of your tarnished words,

into a song.

Your garment, once my root, my bough of ornate metaphors,

now a Euphemism of a ransom…

…a ransom that depicts a distorted face of a man,

clearly placing Verses of his frenetic views and exposé,

onto the bosoms of his sanctum,

which thoroughly means nothing in her voyage.

O’ Senator of Lies and Prejudice,

I, taking you for granted is no way to judge,

you take me with Disrespect as you knead me like a piece of dough,

flour that forays the bowl of unchartered deceptions,

and paste that attacked my cup of candor,

scattering the broken pieces of truth at the door,

with a sweeping mop you flutter It aside,

It was my resonance that Beheld you,

and now there will be no sun that fray,

no beam to mime and shine,

no moon above the majestic shrine,

as the nearest cemetery tweaks the eeriness of our predicament,

This moment; though solemn,

will fulfill the dignified you, like how you retire your thoughts at night,

and this moment; though grim and somber,

will alas define my journey in uncertainties.