The linen shirt, black & lifeless,
hanging alone in the dark;
It mourns the loneliness too.
Should I turn over the page,
maybe there was a comma I misread.
There is the dull morning that waits,
I only have 6 hours to breathe in the lull.
For there is the sound,
that writhes with the pain,
the sound of someone typing some words down.
Shall I look? Take a peak.
Maybe,
mistress meaning has chosen to lay
not here but in your slumbering verse.
Won’t you wrap her in your arms,
soothe her pulsating neck with a kiss?
Look straight below the mountains of her breast,
into the tiny hollow valley of her womb,
won’t you?

Ask her.
The madness she invites for when she walks away,
quietly out of their sentences,
leaving her lovers looking for traces of her.

She’s a twisted little bitch,
but a proud one.
I bow to her graces for when she enters me,
for a moment I feel impregnated with a thousand lies.
I yearn for her touch,
when she holds me in her grasp, I almost feel hopeful.

The last I saw of her, meandering,
like a careless deer in the woods.
Couldn’t she see the man in the black shirt?
Even the sullen tree shook,
In that moment, it knew more.
He bore with him the nude ego,
it took a shot in the dark.
What learned men couldn’t capture, he killed.
In a reckless play,
He found, forgo & finished the spells of Faust,
riddles of Chanakya…even the plight of Plath.

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