of your soul with my
own. What else is there
to give? Everything
I touch turns to dust, my people
to bubble and smoke, my
memories nothing but
ceaseless words and
skin. I forget
my lies, I do not
remember my craft,
The morning finds me bereft of dreams.
I am stone.
16 comments:
morning...daylight...harshness...reality bites.
Wonderful...as always.
just when i thought that every word was overused in poetry, and every emotion dramatised; in hopes of brilliance but ending in rigor mortis,
i read you
its just genius, the way you use your words,
and the style,
just genius
love,
ahona.
(iti nohe...
priti)
"The morning finds me bereft of dreams.I am stone."
Brilliant brilliant... as always.
:)
you have a way with the words...absolutely brilliant stuff!!
excellent.....
very nice and touchy
thats it!! i am going to give you my indiblogger vote... :)
I like your place!!
excellent..excellent!!
like always
*classic*
beautiful poetry!!
brilliant!
devilishly delicious.
style.
too sharp for my eyes.
i love you. i love this.
This is terrific...wonderful piece with quirky piece of abstraction culminating in that last statement
"I am the stone"
Brilliant stuff :)
Regards~ Sayandeep
That is an awesome piece and Its been my first visit to this, but I am already in love with your blog.. I can say I am your fan. Genuinely.
strikingly serene
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