In the middle of an ethereal, violet colored duet
where the lines pave another secret
rests the clear mounted whorl.
About thorough sapphire cleansed of sorrow
neither the past repeats its hollow claims
nor the raptured retirees peel away
the captured sinew.
In the wait that must read the surreal, comes the wreath who weeds,
all awhile the fragrant of the roses are playing dalliance
to the patrons who are mingling
amongst the ruins
The blow to the trifling square awaits it to admit
that the guests who sleep naked in the night
will grab their bolts in the morning.
To relish the greed when the chance comes calling
in turn has got the gravel to feed
butter from the wounds of the memories.
As heavy as it may be, the letters leave a puck mark on the dreams –
they have been wringing and rambling tricks they play.
The dreams don’t mean much;
that’s how they equal the days’ worth.
All the drama suffices to sell
three ugly habits that surface when you leave behind the dress you wear
when the sequel to the fortune triumphs
All you fare to hustle raves inside of you.
All you dare drivels in your bleed
when the conscience cuts
a concise cut.
The chance is, like any stubble, growing while you sleep.
© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2018
Image © Gnarled Juniper by Brice Harbert