It hurt a bit, the little scratch
When a vagrant nail scraped
With nonchalant smugness;
What pained more, was the yarn
Pulled out from a cozy space
It stared at me, pleading repair
It’s world ready to unravel
With a stitch now haywire

I held the woolen memory
Lovingly in my warm hand
Still smelling of mothballs
Just subdued by gentle wash;
Grabbed a frigid crochet hook
Delicately weaved in the strand
Tied a neat knot, pulled it tight
Tucked it all away, out of sight

Cadavers of love

Warped lies embedded
In the nucleus of your being
Tilted fantasia
Twisted mockery
Of ethereal tenderness
For it was never real

Silken trail of togetherness
Sodden with maggots
Carcass of words
Infested with falsehood
Almost sounding true
Under the dying moon

Raven-eyed, the lost prowl
For cadavers of love
Scavenging in ribcages
For a heart beating
Still yearning with desire
To find true intimacy


Do you wonder, find it strange
How this world loathes
When we could love more
As hatred spills everywhere
We stand still, stare in despair
None intervene, all stay aloof
“It’s not my battle, not my war”
Until it is knocking at our door!
For the thing with hatred is this
When ignored, it only spreads
Its claws are sharp, hunger wild
We may be silent but can’t hide.


What had happened was
Giggles over a picnic spread
Thick layers of marmalade
Stacks of thin crepes
Trickles of blueberry
Glasses of lemonade
Under the mulberry tree
Just dreams of summer
Stained with myriad colors
As in the winter sun I lay
Thinking of you and all
That you just left behind!


On a Sunday morning
A summer-perfumed breeze
Rocks the hammock
A book cover gazes
Vacantly at azure skies
A fly lazily sits on the rim
Of an empty flute of nectar
Thoughts doze off embracing
An idyllic disregard
For chores and such
Until a mundane morrow

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