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.
