Mornings begin, blooming into a rosy day
Where we wait patiently to be devoured
By the horizon shift – silver to orange.
Rays hit the pores of our skin,
Craters of dark spots come to light.
Breakfast is an old thing,
We eat our own existence now.
The blood dripping off your mouth
Carries the aroma of mist,
Envelops our existence, blanketed by honey.
I eat the flesh, through mauve nails
Ricocheting between kisses and customs.
As I lay naked on a bloody floor,
Flowing from my veins are remorse-rivers.
You’re one holy dip away from purity.
I write, vomit on ruled sheets
Holding the worst weapon ever created.
The weapon stinks of my existence,
A genocide of its own-
Killing those who read
Living those who write-
A catharsis, unknown.
Mirror barely gets my glimpses,
The alleged beauty, the alleged truth.
Sea of humans suck our golden lymphs
Repeating the age-old truth, truth and beauty.
The outlook of my existence nips
The buds of creativity,
On most of the days, I simply exist.
Apologies sit on my lower lip
Whilst upper lip grows moths.
“Surrendering” is the only ritual poets perform, unconsciously.
On rest of the days, they simply exist.
A molten ball of sickness,
A burning desire put to sleep.
I hide from scavenging eyes
To tie my hair in a messy ponytail.
The question mark on his face
The denial in my existence
Put trembles in the minds.
Strangers stare, upholding their expectations
On the top of it, organs of shame exist.
My head blasts off vague memories
And, my behaviour is erratic.
As swift as my lovers, my mood swings are-
The iron gate shuts off with a thunderbolt,
Fear drips as melting nails from fingers,
As colostrum for an infant,
As kisses of a desperate lover.
Do I even smell of you?
Do my bones lick the touch of my existence?
Do I even exist? Do I?
I appear, I disappear; resurrect from dead.
A reality is denying its reflection.
Or, just another living paradox, driven by madness?
Does that make reality an illusion?
Women are magical
But, shameless women are mystical.
Lashes of introspection sit around oils of retrospection
Flutter around with enormous wings
Woven of sharp blades and,
Stitched on blood-sucked parched skin.
On the night of full moon,
They simply resist.
Finale touches me but ceases to exist
Once it flows along the remorse-rivers.
An emotion presses itself into your chest,
We know it.
We hear it thrashing our left breasts
Whilst the red organ pumps more and more.
On most of the days, we simply resist.
© Cereus Florus. 2019.