a thousand randy leaves share some gossip
on top of the tree. breezes dance in a
waste of shame. no penetration has yet
monopolized into the t-reethmycal being. here is a well,
which is not well at all.
his water has netted a few cobwebs of
sorrows that have been inherited from the
unable well-wisher, everyday, who bent her
waist and lifted a few glasses of water.
there is no cistern of hope in which i can
store my pangs... here on my bed, i am
writh'ng like a woman striving to make
crinkly of hers, when unwill'ngly
gangraped... and the body of mine is put
on a wounded chador... a sleek sunny ray
penetrates through the dark bar of chocolate around me,
and i, like a flower,
(who is often made a substitution for a
stone,) chew a solar blow. i wanted to fly
like a Beckham centre, always spotted-on.
...however, i was monopolized like Blake