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

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