She and the fire
fight adjectives. Their concreteness
I'll speak you mine, you speak me yours
since all's in the telling, content, form
to mangle the Master's eavesdropping
The word of Love is nothing but allusion.
Love is not bound by poetic metaphors.
The heart recognises the jewel of Love.
Reason has no inkling of this insight.
I’m comfortable with your confronting me
hurling, albeit politely, the epic query
haunting your ‘tolerance’ and a fever
––Listen my Prince. This is important. I could feel
the dew setting on the leaves and petals of lilies and camellias.
I'll tell you why.
the onslaught of religion.
A bright and barefoot little girl
with a garland of cherry blossoms
enters the unattended village church.
I’m sick of You. Your magnificence
precipitates mental pain, ethical
cramps. That You continue to shine