The lavish touch, this gloss and grain of my rich and royal gown is afar lexis. Finesse of fabric persuades my obsession to kneel down at my brittle knees as reaction to involuntary action. The lace of fairy feathered rim mesmerizes, stimulates and hoodwinks a feeble wish lying in the backyard of this monumental mind to violate the quiet of sobs. Ignorant of authenticity, this mechanized mind jumps into impenetrable woods of knowledge to capture its source.
Ah! Mystery. My gown a thousand caterpillars put together by consuming the wings of mulberry tree. I am that caterpillar. I hide my privacy. I bedeck my bed sheets. But Alas! I drop my caterpillar on the roughly vacant lips of my grave, for no silk serves a corpse. With me dies my caterpillar. My silk dies before me. No more service, for silk serves crimson limbs when pulsating. A coarse wrapper ends the tale of mundanity ___ dust to dust. Oh! Good worm your compassion is for royal cabins, your elegance and feel now for the bards to festoon their beloveds in their velvety verses, looking to honor their metaphors with longevity. Let them hide their highly sensitive fancies for silk holds a silken secret.
My entire thread of unimaginable thoughts that I call poetry has been seductive antidote for a vacant silver fish that peeps down the lanes of woes to ravish my past. The ink of inkling that once enjoyed a hot bed to encourage pulsating propaganda of youth is now a faded verse on sheets asking for magnifying glass. How heartrending! Once a verse composed among the lofty virgins of sky kissing peaks of ecstasy loses its shine at the arrival of unruly silver fish. This little naughty creature carries sufficient bitterness to acid wash off the entire or at least a portion of the page, leaving it for the guess. People guess, but how long their guess work can work? Anything that is left to be decided on presumptions loses half of its life. Whatever this vacant wish in the valley of wolves had donated ends up like a dish‑‑‑‑‑ dream dish for a silver fish. What word, what verse shall I for epitaphs leave behind to share a mourning eve whose soul mate needs a verse on marble, a wreath of gentle petals and rosewater spray to rejuvenate her deep down discomfort. Shall I trap the queen of silver fish or shall I leave my lines for her to burry my errors.
How now the delicate clothing of this modest creepy-crawly has spoiled vacant rooms of romance. Every corner invaded, every joint occupied like oppressor’s mood. We bejewel ruins of love, we refurbish fissured balconies of beliefs, we polish the memories to live with them, we superimpose arguments on follies and we jumps to conclusions to gratify our lighter moments. But, we never take into consideration that our ruins speak volumes. We are caught in our own meshes. We are spiders. We intertwine for our survivals, yet a gush of air throws us to the bins. We keep living in threads. We are threads of time. We are caught in web like a mosquito in spiders net for no faults. We ruin our wrecked cages that once cart our breathing and our spiders are insult proof. We shove them off under the flood light of sun, but they invade our ruins, even living cabins when we get pleasure from forty winks. At the break of dawn, our occupied corners expose our laziness. What invades these forts of assured confidence is not a web that we are exposed to, but a well planned tuft of fine threads. These filaments appear trouble-free bed of gentle warmth, but once you are tempted, escape routes are sealed. You are detained between soil and sky. You raise your voice, you are squeezed. This fine cord knows how to fit a neck in the noose. Once imprisoned in the spider’s web, options are open. Choice is all what matters. Waiting endlessly for a jet of air to break the snare may not serve, for it is better to raise your voice and attain peace, or to surrender to face wrath on every new moon and full moon night. The best option might be to safeguard your rooms and to clean vacant corners daily. Your negligence is free entry to spiders.
