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Morning Song

Wet pink

And dusty grey

The sky begins to blush.

Some sleepy careless charm welcomes


Even Song


And pink gold hues

The smug sky at twilight

A final flush of fulfilment

Night falls.

Fuchsia Shock

My bed smells of textbooks

and it is more than a month or so,

since I dreamt of sunlight and the sky's

embrace. Even a woman's lush vanities —

scarlet silk and shining gold — have been lost

on me. I am snared in a world of aqua, fuchsia,

and lime set dangerously against black and white.

Words tightly wrapped,

and imprisoned in a cluster of

highlighter colours, share my slavery.

Rattling loud, the colorized intrusions

have pickled the past, leaving me to savour

saturation. Oh hell, even my treasured dreams

have been bleached away in shades of three, or five.

Save me, from this

unbearable starkness

of fluorescence; where lines

rehash the pages brutally, moving

with sounds of spectacled scrutiny.

For, all that I can bear to comprehend

is the loss of dare: my sheltered cowardice.

And, the sole comfort I crave, through stifled

tears is stolen love beneath stained glass windows.

Dearest, lavish your love

in slender earthtone shades,

in the colours of skin singing —

to shield our renewed dreams,

and to believe, once more, in absolutes.

My poetry

My poetry is naked,

my poetry is in tears,

my poetry screams in anger,

my poetry writhes in pain.

My poetry smells of blood,

my poetry salutes sacrifice.

My poetry speaks like my people,

my poetry speaks for my people.