Friday, November 22, 2013

Impasto

It’s been in the habit
That any specification seldom drills her affections
That her style is rather fast perceptive in whole
It’s impressionistic- abstract -inexplicit
That the contours of his face-
The shifting shades of his eyes
The fabric of his skin- his hair- his nails
All sustain foggy in her memory.

Let alone the fervency in his smile
As he brushes his hands against her ankles
And his sweet conjectures racing before her pranks
Form the silhouette of her entire passion.

Yet he mourns over her ways so quaint
And yet she impishly laughs at
Because
 Every shell has its own whirl of air
 It’s always private
 Unrelenting
 And persistent.

3 comments:

  1. beautiful as ever... i came here for the first time since 1947, and you have not changed a single bit :) keep going...

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  2. good poem.. I see that you are moving away from always (atleast since 1947 :P) writing about depressing things to happy stuff. Which is cool .. good for you!

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  3. Hiii sooo good...its happiness..itss love ....u share and see in someones eyes..may gOd bless u with dis entire lif3...!!!

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