Wednesday, 12 January 2011

In the lost town of strange maladies, dawn gardeners grow frosted roses.
Tulips bleed colour into leaf cups of desire.

Have you heard the winds howling back at wolves, naked, rugged?

Wisps of black smoke licked the orange tongues of flames.

Don’t you blame blue for your pain.

Is all this light bleeding for salvation?

Vice-peddler, did you see the green-tongued snake? It was charmed.
Were you too? Or were you faking it?

6 comments:

Pre_Dator said...

quintessential poet is back! whom do u talk to btw?

Siddhartha said...

I like the way this piece flows,I like the way you put the fragments together:)

"effervescencia" said...

@Pre_Dator: Who do I talk to? About what?

@Siddhartha: Thanks. Although, it can hardly be called a piece. I just put all the loose lying lines together. :)

Pre_Dator said...

your writings.. the context of 'You' n 'I'.. precisely the same thing u asked me on my post..

"effervescencia" said...

Oh... my muse, mostly. Every poet has a muse. We thrive on them because we do not have reason :)
Get it?

Pre_Dator said...

yep :)