I float in a fancy,
when you touched my skin
with fingers wet and glossy,
Like the panels of your cabin’s windows
on a pleasant summer evening.
The ailing sun with a glowing womb,
pushes down the crimson sky,
with clouds of chivalry
running over the stars
to meet the passionate night.

I cloth myself over fingerprints
marching over my scales and coiling body,
into a battlefield of Time’s testimony.
In a mesh of pulpy nerves and anxiety,
I am a cocoon being ready to bloom
for thousands of years.
With crumbled pillows and stained bedsheets
I put it into flames with my insanity;
The sparks of Nemesis offspring
fall over my breasts
limping its way in my head.

Every night, my temple shines,
with hand prints and letters
invisible to all but you.
I drenched myself into a skin of another;
Waxing away the aging prints of hands,
with dark patterns of multiple colours.

It BURNS.
It BURNS.
It BURNS.
You see a body brown like,
the mellow stains of coffee,
I spilled over you, last summer.
I see a woman;
With palpable images she gets drunk with,
every time she falls in love.
With days and months passing by, my skin peels off,
with marks springing from the crevices
you never thought existed.

I ran with a menacing speed,
to hold the fading glimpse into the woods,
of a woman with a body like virgin lilies
Years ago.
I spread my vines over your monastery,
with marbles dark, broad, and cold.
Like the frozen icicles I froze too;
Into a crown too heavy for your throne
to carry.
An ending I cannot see of this agony,
revolving in madness to love you and me.

I am a psychopath,
to call your burning touch as love;
It still burns but I love it, because I love you.
I still stand here mirroring the fingerprints,
with yours over my bosoms,
deep on my heart.
I sit still,
hearing the swan’s ethereal melodies,
mixing your blotch amongst thousands;
Slipping my senses into a sleep,
you would rather be happy not to feel again.

_{(Poetry from The Hemlock’s Issue 6, Winter 2024)}

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