Fearless fronds at fall.

Down they come like multicolored rains,

In golds, reds and browns,

Implicitly beauteous, orange-dappled mosaic art,

Myriad of shapes and crowns.

Down they come in graceful manoeuvres,

Veiling burns and wound,

With regal Lady Autumn near,

Ornate confetti frame the ground.

Down they come, the fearless fronds,

Their endmost journey as now.

Down they come in a drunken stupor,

The earthlings of the bough.

With least resistance from the malign wind,

And goodbye to Guardian root,

Brave bracts, they leave,

Only to be crunched underfoot.

 

Tacenda.

 

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A calendar set to the August noon,

painted haphazardly

by mouth.

 

Can I unbolt the door?

 

Salt-sweat oozes

from half-shut eyes.

Half-drunk cup of tea,

cooled, detoxed,

but not forgotten.

 

Where am I shelved?

 

The gentle moans

lost in the rumble of thunder,

My dust-greased hairs

flutter.

 

 

Frivolous makeshift, am I not?

 

Dandelions fatten,

Grapple me in.

Confused scuffles

down the spiral staircase.

 

A canopy of tenebrosity.

My almost burnt cigarette.

 

The razor-thin line

between Love

and Lust,

and a set of

amaurotic mortals.

 

Broken knees

of a dancing ballerina,

I fall.

Bronzed from head to ankles,

I fear,

my line ends here.