seasons

In winter
dust gathers on the ceiling fan:
an indication of passed time.

In the monsoons,
there comes a dry spell--without rain;
another failed attempt at renewal.

The summer makes everything more scorched,
charred.

Ashes of us.
Ashes what we used to be.

Spring is dead. . .
black roses is what I have
(you must have noticed).

I try (only sometimes), to find a way out,
beyond seasons, and cycles(which transform),
a way out of my eyes, and your carnal smiles.

Struggling, shrieking in my mind, trying to breath(or peacefully die),
and yes, a somehow-ness finds its way into my mind.

last night.

Before last night.

As it rained a few nights before
(I still remember)
How with all perceivable dimensions
I slept in her arms.

She is the mistress of my hormones
And she tames the thing inside
My crumbling bones.

I have lived through her
All the naked flames :
Of burning nights
And burning skies
And burning lives.

I have felt in her
The exact euphoria and blankness
And the orgasm of limited and timeless
Grangfather clock chimes.

After last night.

She killed me last night.
After I touched her gently for the final time.

I am a curse now.
Invincible, invisible.
Like a rough wind in her hair,
Like a spider-web in mid-air.

Is she still the mistress of my hormones ?
Can she still tame the waking thing inside
Crumbling bones?

I mustn't care about all that now.
I have to be going for the kill now.

I must posses her,
And pointlessly ask her:
Why?

diptanjan sarma purkayastha