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.