I’ve found dust feud over songs written in the bold on walls
Melting away off a mimicry from the last call missed twice since
The attires numb to wits, holding back glasses off surprise,
Tried to make a bullet out of a kiss. It is palate eager to
Lease its sanctity on a quartz quatrat; in shape of daffodils drawn to pity,
Like having collected all dreams and painted a hologram which believes
in itself, to be the satiety of creation and plunges
Into its own query, attempting to bubble the last talked fallacy.
The world is a carousel and each caress slits a tomb away from its misery.
Having to ditch the slope, snob and slob in guise,
Made cut off pyjama pockets, and lose letters hung on to dew,
The identity of the bangles ceases to cling when let off to.
An idle singe has nothing to do with the life less lead;
To piece the rhyme to unwind jealousy from jeopardy,
Each sound figures in fits, and Vision parade till infinity,
Save, if the wild will musters the courage to blind its deed.
In the whirlwind reprise of the effigy burned
Last night, I creased my hair in silver to court my demons.
In the wanton dustswirl, the slip of a bill is heavy; As it prowls,
It tolls on the majesty resting like a clown – bored in its mulled fantasies,
Turning pits into poisonous veil that turn upside down the rattled rage
As it pinches a new sunrise; it provokes a plunder – one of eyes.
The thick dreams dally into time a lost tune, well winding
The waded beats to butter the gun in an attempt to roll the rum while a twinkle lights the sun.
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