The day recedes into the nooks of the fleeting twilight as my dreams prepare to come out of their nonchalant sorties. In an old world, where days are like aeons, and cities are guarded with walled gates, you wish you could fly a kite or breathe on the still waters of an ornate Mediaeval fount.
The Goddess who Cried
Far from the crowd of the city, where whole realms can escape,
let alone dreams:
It's a sphere of bliss and praying phantoms, flying the magic rug.
The betel nut garden, embryoned beside a pious stone, serves faith in perfect fealty
Where the suns rise early and mother a thousand autonomies.
Late in the eve, a Lady Ghost of a moon comes up beside the guardian palms
Her exquisiteness securely sheltered from the naked view
As we indulge in self-liberating doings – merely making fools of ourselves in the process.
We mind others, not knowing we need minding too!
She’s a pagan damsel wreaking mayhem in men’s lives. She enchants, disappears and resurfaces in the moods of my wanton loneliness. In my self’s several impoverishments, she eludes and works spells, that I may not fail my loyalties to infidelity – a veritable urge. Tonight she comes all in white – my beauty of darkness – in my lavish arms. Happiness, after all, is learning to forgive and making the best of what there is.
