I. The far past….
Again in my bedroom
I found my love
Shining like a bright pearl.
As the ocean beneath the Sun.
My love; my Poetry
I found thee again.
Your radiance is so strong
Like a burning flame
In the distance so long
To capture the flame;
And to rule the throne.
I entered my bedroom upstairs again
Your tantalizing body under my linen sheet
As perfect as the rhymes of Pope
Baffled me to enter or to stop.
You lied face down
With your back open
Arms spread on the ground
To grasp me fully into them.
“The pain of loving you
Is almost more than I can bear”
Chants Lawrence in ‘A Young Wife”
My truest desperations in delight.
Should I move close to you?
Or should I not?
Should I touch your Wordsworthian skin?
And snatch the nature from his flesh.
To grasp the Universe and create it afresh.
Will you then be back from your sleep?
Ambiguity endures deep into my breast.
I will lose my Trance.
I am climbing Mount Everest
Commemorating Byron’s Womanizing eloquence
You took bath in the beauty
From Beowulf to the present time
Moulding its structure.
My room is gleaming
Never have been so luminous before
Her body bright
All the spectators are in pure delight.
Alluring me to touch thee
And then I will be ostentatiously free.
Free from all bondages of ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’
My salient motive will be then
To further seduce this temperament.
I moved towards her, and
Touched my white linen sheet.
I sprayed my hand
On the naked back of ‘Christabel’
My heart is throbing twice, thrice….
My hands are trembling
As cold as ice.
Finally, I have touched thee.
And I entered the Trance of my Trance.
II. The near past...
You gazed directly into my eyes.
I can search the treasures beneath the chambers of the sea.
Holding my hands, and
Leading me deep into the depths.
Your touch is tepid
Amalgamating me into your cast.
I am trying to rise out of my inside.
But then, I will lose my double Trance
And my heart will mourn at this demise.
Your lips are coming close to mine
I have to close my eyes
To enjoy the ecstasy of the infinity of my Trans
You Poetry is my truest muse.
As you blessed Milton.
Bless me the same use.
Our breathings are colliding.
Our lips are eating the distance.
Oh! My Mephistophilis!
I might come!
III. The present…
Enduring love is perpetual
Like a persistant tree,
Who’s branches are endless in the sky
Showering eternal and
Nature of love distinguished it
With all other bonds.
I just only wanted to tell her…
I my room
A night watching me,
In the dark.