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




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.