Saturday, 16 April 2016

Gypsy Cloud..!

My premonition fondles the lips which do not speak;
Of a silent mouth of expression & it's sorry squeak;

Her tongue tastes like an illusion she thrives upon;
To be an impossibility, for the possibility she seeks;

Neat as a lie, as frail as her resolve when it peaks,
Crumbles into cracks of her shell whereby she leaks;
She is the miscellany of vanity & a parasitical sigh;
Which throbs like a conceit when it inanely screaks;

Becomes a precise picture of ornery when she speaks;
Of her twine with ennui, when it blushes her cheeks;
Unfulfilled yet accomplished, incomplete yet perfect;
her fibbing eyes mirror her heart as it double-speaks;

Of my lucid craving for the abode I do not bespeak;
For the taste of a longing is neither to have nor seek;
A sure & friendly womb, for the abiding chasm within;
A courage to brave out self, a courage to become weak.