barren of
womb and soul alike,
as a pearl-less oyster or
a conch without
a symphony hurling within
its coiled uterus.

to replicate and leave,
my traces etched
over sands of posterity,
the spawn of my love
will never bloom
as a wisteria in sunshine.

my love is transient
as the colors splattered on
the taffeta of twilight,
destined to be erased by
fingers of sable anonymity.

wasted as hursinghars
falling in saffron arms of dawn,
my love is like the gypsy cloud fated
to rain and give fertility,
but never to bear fruit just tears,
with an illusive rainbow of hope
beckoning from beyond horizons that
the sea brags of washing.

as the amber moon of twilight
sits on nude boughs of despair I too
find alcove with dark recesses
of silence or seek solace
in indifferent crowds,
and try to hide my emptiness in
the eternal rancor of tides…


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