I shouldn’t have watched those horror movies, while my gloves were on the scant of creepy nails. The closer my hands, nearer were the horrible graphics of Asian curse. If only I had nailcutter. I wish I could switch on the lights. I meant, if I could turn on my guts. Everything is holy scary till I won’t be able to summon morning rays.
Wait why my nails are bleaming? The creepy ones. Ah! I knew..I should stop enlightening my horror scraps. Otherwise, I would be jotting of cupid on the basement of betrayal. It’s only a jest
I forgot buttoning up your disclosures
as I ran on those crunched hurdles
If only you had cupped off your hands
I could have swept off the crumbled shatters
and placed it on the vacant thrones
But, they aren’t used to embracing pieces
they are always into plushes
You and I have empty pockets
And the jar has leftover cookies
what shall we had tomorrow mornings
if the jar secured saturated airbags
it’s the only nose, weak in knees
other, evenings, we had drumming bellies
They shall dance to our rhythms
Because, they had always been the mockery nuggets
Winter charms had been hitting at the Kathmandu. So, we graced something warm across the hill of Jorpati, Krishna Mandir (Temple), only one of us had heard of. The faint sunlight followed us on the graveled roads along the Gothatar. And the edges drew the lines of houses when we drove toward the destination.
As per the instruction of pedestrian, we led to the holy grail of Krishna, eventually. It’s where he dwells in tranquility. So exquisite and enthralling at the same time.
When the halo of beauty coincides the ancient tales, the duo retains cultural doctrines among the devotees.
If the dark shade invades in, we are gearing our luminescence, in case. (PS: Taking photographs inside the temple is prohibited)
I am a chocolate dipped in the illustrator’s hemisphere. Their pupils dilate, as I boast my embroideries here. ” It does suit me, doesn’t it?” I ask them every time.
Picture Credit: Someone who secures his grin all the time after pulling my leg and is familiar with the sense of photography than me.
On a queue, I wonder if else drum the circulation
I could still love his prickling beard
Now the lane connects closer to the flames
Hence, the peak of my feet nail trips on him
He is on the pools of snow, while I shall bribe the sun
His smile butter me up on an oil
It taste numb yet too complete
It’s his hand stirring the selfless drools
I thought I’m breathing in soils of his arms
How does that ruins of skeleton trap carelessness?
I wished If I had disowned frying pan, oil and that flame.
mama must be amazed by the patterns sealed in her heirs
Playing is in their genes
yeah! champ fight over it. whose side I am hooting for??
Show is over, curtains are dragged down! meows
1: Shall we draw a curtain?
2: nah! that look is enough
1: Am I scary? are you telling me that I look scary? huh?
2: No..No! I meant You act well. you are pretending to be scary. And we have scared her though.
1: Do you know what? you should stop an act like human. Do not flatter me. Once, they butter their innocence, you shall glide your blackey wings on the blues.
And the tarts continued to scatter
one, on the right corner
where, I had plucked up thorns
mustered up earthy lime
nailed down my own beat
if it drummed again
I swore to revive
but it sloped on the next corner
next, on the left corner
lights flickered upon
I can’t recall what is tucked up there
I can smell the leftover vows
stinking at its best
must fetch on the beat
and tally up within me
Almost obtuse sight
heard a right and left corner high fives
I pinned down luck on the palm
flipped it over leftovers
and I found my beat overlapped
within the ruins of thorns
I thought I puked it in trash
leaped under the skin
jolted down the thoughts
I’m still a partner with leftovers vows
because he says I stink