Behind the roses- the trail of a wheel on the dusty road-
Being the only proof of its existence- as a part of something
More- fingers of rotting corpses puncturing their bloated bodies
And crows cawing zero are beads- of a longer string-
His intentions forming ranks in her lap is seen only from a
Certain distance- vertically- ant is a weight of a greater purpose-
The monk a sediment of smaller desires- the girl in her invisible
Radius- like desert lizards- osmosing heat from sun and taking
To the shade- only when the light is beyond bear- lives of
Mirrors and optimal stops- but the shadow is or is not shadow-
Nothing shallower nothing deeper- breaking light is an oneway dig-
Uprooted roses wither in light to bloom in shadow- lacking
The vaguity of the distorty air between fire and not fire- like words
That are a part of something great and of something greater still..
~Ajay
26/3/19
YOU ARE READING
seaboyman ~ poetry
Poetry~ is that not the perfect visual image of life and death / a fish flapping on the carpet and a fish not flapping on the carpet ~
