Where Tides Have Tarried to Figure Ruin

In the journey
A few men, of long lovers
Fed off of feud
Of mimicry, sound mute
Drew a barrel, withdrew a dune
A potion filled with gurgles
Strange mouths, attires of ruse
Off which none spoke often.

Fish mat a few doors
Away from the shores
Where they dire
Hold the fair in some giddy affairs
To lock gills in a slide
Despite the ruin and their desires
To fragment shapes into shades
And mirrors into maze.

Whenever the Cold cater
The nips get bolder of their retired tunes
Within the bars bitter folds floor
Satires of old and gold
Played out with frenzy in a sold audience
And the run rakes away the rolled
Away from known
Into the annals untold
And rest is the minute
In its moment a crow.

Letters grind songs
In their moth melody, fickle fumed
And litters round gullies
In a show to blossom
Mute aids visible in the fortune
Sickle shaped and filling room
Faster than the air beguiles
Stronger than the stench corrodes
Waited on to ride the crack
On to its own ends.

 

© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017-2018

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