If I were to dive
nose bound into my apology,
I’d find constrictions around the neck
heart flailing, legs weak.
All in all, a perfect elegy
to my pearl shaped advances
I’ve wrecked from the oyster’s cavity.
It’s all in a well
whirling away in skin, like insects
and it plunges deep
so it pleads;
do I have to bleed?
I might me masked and asked
bla! bla! bla!
My words are emphatic
but the heart still trips
over the gullies where guilt greets:
a singed pity inflames me.
If I were to bull
into my own fits
offering an inkling of satire
as if the soul had any more of it,
it would seed a memorial
and I’d be the one burgeoning
in my own, tried and tested
off the sew that saws into my being
an in-depth analysis
of the plaited hums that sinew
a sin against a virtue,
seething sad fangs sold in grey areas
priced against a petty flower –
a garb unsold in memory of the beseeched,
as a memoir I still weed.
I sift through my root, gulping my own query
whether I am to find a suitor –
a suited anchor without irks
to sleep in my quarters as I weep
my guilt off the soul
and enter a state of bliss.
If I were to repeal
every figure that has made
a mark on me
I’d still be eccentric, if not immune
to the blotted remains
of the struggles that have reigned.
To assigne an effigy, I’d place
a thousand kilo horse,
armed and gilded,
as it savors through a rough age
and in hopes that it may veer off my name
off the erred hearing I am made to appear in.
As today unfolds, tonight’s meal is bonded to fervor.
To the stride I take in the glossed evening,
hordes a find that fields into a fold
and I may hold the passing girth
of the floating reel that swings
and it may heave a pleasant yard
through my heart. For it to bold a yelp or two,
it would still, quicker, and I may queer
like I fuss rushing through the fear.
© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017