Seldom.

That iota of unsung joy, her philippic try of diatribe,

she escalates the tirade, its intolerable cries,

still ringing mire in disremembered comprise.

Alas, its compromise thats decides,

chides in mourning, in romance - she susurrates;

but murmurs in desperation,  her eyes.

Ah weakness! Of threats and what else?

In withdrawal, helpless and piqued;

with lacerated lust, we'd misinterpret.

Love, go lave, sluice your mien, wear that expression

that spruces you unclean.

And return, skirting that wicked satire,

of fallen amour in our fake empire.

Trick.

Create.

Alongside warmth, draws contempt,

as sometimes, indulgence is disregard;

n' then rede does absolve parcel,

my indifference's will to get charred.

Partake.

Ah love, savor my mistake,

eft, its dust which makes the sand;

in smithereens, I endear,

but now you've the upper hand.

Dissolve.

Your card isn't played as yet,

as that move shall issue giveaway;

much as I've known you far too long,

too chance upon and be outplayed.

Kite.

Someone's ichor reckons flow, 

a damask laden, bathed in echo

n' as summer's intrigue begins to choke, 

your vanishing voice brings helpless sorrow.

For I'm equally incapable,

whittled in pickled merriment,

the cigarettes reek mire thin, 

simmering films with charred confidence.

Aren't you adept? Wouldn't you help?

Or construct ire, soaked in skin.

In thin misprint, evoking carious squint,  

now slain within this abandoned hint.

Cede.

Chide, don't side with them;

a broken bone, stress rustling thin.

But you slide against the wind,

incurious, woebegone within.

For they ascertain, in disquietude,

a prelude, as you'd be left to rue.

Now lets simmer away, all choler and ire,

an entire mire  inculpating them.

Even then, isn't to err only human?

Aren't we betoken to railroad and win?

Or do we delicately surrender?

To them, for them to make the most of it...

Muffle.

Hello inspiration! Where'd you melt away?

In a fleeting second, with callow innocence;

your redolence swaying, slaying these verses tense,  

and tacit lines wrapped - rapt in unfinished sentences.

Wilt.

She'd talk herself out, unassertive in sleep,

stammering across - a reverie in stampede,

to recede defeat in muted strains that ache,

only to drift away, leaving me awake.

Compos mentis, I'm found to acquaint restraint,

a tinge o' despair impairing already slippery paint;

the tone is moist, misty in sedate disquiet,

for 'neath the subdued pastel, dies our forgotten riot.

A parallel frame, which we dyed commotion,

stirring colloquy with withdrawn emotion.

But doesn't it hurt more when there is unrest?

As fracas slays only to conquer and arrest...

In smithereens, each caress makes sentence;

a broken bone, your smear on self confidence,

and with it, shallow imprudence makes you wince,

for when I need to overwhelm, its easier to convince...

Resent.

Effort, dirt on fragmented thirst,

she lets assert, and the hurt equals comfort.

But you don't skirt there checking math, 

one can heat the cake, and melt the mud exact.

So you subtract skin, deliquescing to react,

for slowly I'll sink away, too bothered to distract.

What makes enact - is an anxiousness in attempt,

for distress is fragile, when taken in contempt.

 

And that leaves me muted, frosted with intent,

vexed in slow disquiet, and disarmingly foment. 

That might scotch the riddle, buried thin in clutter,

as despite a sweet taste in the mouth, you're still left bitter.

Rapt.

...And the sheets bridge the shelf,

gathering dust and whispering tense;

gift wrapped in soft susurrate,

solemnly sailing in coincidence.

And the whiskey spills the floor,

soiling film and stifling foment;

belittling each need to sullen,

rubbing wrong that argument.

And the ardor stocks my thoughts,

your lips meanwhile lock patience;

wrecking thin and wearing faint,

the idea of an ideal conversation.

But all these whims which are create,

innate, slain within desolate sections; 

a woebegone chin that smiled displeased,

and eyes swimming red with intention.

Yield.

Hello, you, not you, why don't you encourage me?

Instead, you detest, unfailingly protest,

allowing me to succumb wearily.

But I'll address myself this dais,

a recreation that won't veneer;

lest it break the bone to design,

unless that sooner interfere.

So why don't you bring along prudence?

Sagacity might do you some good,

I'll stifle the ache, you echo a retort,

and sing the songs that I would.

That guilt is you blotch on self confidence,

discoloration wrapped in deep lament,

a sip to slip, and the song has changed,

while we regret our haplessness.

Egos shall then strive 'neath, delicate?

contours swerving across the vapid floor;

you adore, easily amid my weakness

to charily cave in, craving an encore.

Pepper.

Its the weather 'gain, selfish rain,

while you're content to hopelessly swim;

for a sinking feelings' worth the win,

my analogies, your clueless synonyms.

Its within these little things, I'd apprise,

no surprise for the size of your eyes;

just a broken grin or twenty winks,

us blinking through sorrowed ink.

Slowly the ink pales, creases desert,

hurting worse than simmering dirt;

if only it weren't the whimsical smirks - 

of polished nails on my unclean shirt.

And once soaked, you've left me out to dry,

disguised to revise the fainting sunrise;

for 'neath the whistling winds, a rustle's rye,

your aching toes on otherwise tired thighs.

Uproar.

There, my hapless harbinger,
in vain, you rationalize with me;
over sips of honest Darjeeling,
toasting obvious mediocrity.

So tonight, lets join the gathering,
thats where we're expected least;
for riot will assume confidence,
leaving precedence to patently cease.

But you, for one, are unannounced,
much receding from all worries;
a sip from me and the vase is dry,
with you playing the galleries.

Stammer, but don't hum along,
my discontent isn't disquiet,
its not as if I'm second fiddle;
murmuring selfless, this satire.

Let clamor settle before the waltz,
an inch within pin drop,
for you will grab unspoken envy,
in revelry - take it from the top.

I'm much pickled too, you know,
such melee can make pretend;
and violence wearily stagnates,
three sheets to the rustling wind.

Ah, those forgotten salad days,
another muddled, hackneyed excuse;
but tonight, they'll have none of it,
or of our few eccentric views.

And that is what we always were,
a dusting case study on disarray;
and they'd criticize, all spineless,
such was the order of that day,

Margins.

Truth serum, she'll lose momentum,
I'm afraid to say it doesn't work;
but naivete can become empty handed,
while innocence kills the isolated verb.

So how does one make it alluring,
does the pot call back the kettle?
or do we bathe in evaporating water,
ignorant of all trouble?

Where have you heard this before?
Why didn't you already think of this?
but you have this silly habit,
as I burn my consciousness

Now, your actions request reaction,
and sans that, they're incomplete,
for we've evermore been stoppin' short
courtesy your cold hands, my cold feet.

Valleys.

At foothills, tension builds,
somewhat grey,
sudden displeasure, as her hands sashay.
They break within, therein, they hide,
and as I'd guide, she would step aside.
Inside, her blood would thicken,
and I'd hardly take note, let alone listen,
as once thriven, we assume the conifer lifeless,
immune to tunes, a rubber ball of stress.
A landslide! we run down the narrow lanes,
streets of fortitude, inexplicable delays,
for tumultuous minutes deride ignorance,
the vacuum gets buried, borrowed innocence;
now the climb gets harsh, unpleasant,
of what I could and she wouldn't.

So we muster strength, pretending to make it through,
unaware, disremembering each n' every excuse.
It hurts, and the soldiers slowly leave,
she spins around, caressing my sleeves;
now that's all left when ardor quiets, at last,
we'd riot it out, eschewing upon the past.
In time, ascension regains stride,
and we deride,
to only succumb again.

In vain, triumph pales
as these dying hills disregard
inch by inch and yard by...

Cardamom.

I wander as desultory, browsing until kingdom come,
abandoning the emerald castle; with it, her anthem.
I still have my speech, nestled in prose and stammer,
din in anxious clamor, her knight in shining armor?

"Sublime in silent sensation, you'd easily settle down, 
a tantrum awaiting dew, every sixth activity a noun;
then resound, with equal measure in stride,
like a bird in wintry clime, 'neath the shawl it hides."

What am I to make of that? in smithereens, I write,
shallow weaknesses, and a lack of erratic appetite.

"Now I'll clap you pretty, the wrinkles evince defeat,
her feet smother my skin, the rest of her entreats.
then a forgotten rendition, resonates through aching walls,
crumbling in caramel, and cemented in withdrawal."

The armies now fight the throne, an empire gets tense
swords lacerate the jewels, even ants in utter irrelevance;
for the quiet soul shall espy providence, in solitude, serenade,
red wine, cheese, and orchestra, therein a selfish parade.

So let simmer down, disembark, its a long ride to the South,
a battle's won, but the war has left, a bitter taste in her mouth.

Each.

I captured, a bundle of nerves, 

in this disused, abandoned city;

Sensitive in bicker, senseless in spar,

morning tea with a flurry of activity.

Neither is unkind nor unwelcome,

no longer is each verb a simple noun,

for I won't swallow every phrase, thats as amiss

as reconciliation in this wooden town.

Soon fireworks illuminate the skies, 

merry as those dancing people, I exclaim;

for we'll vamoose before day break,

minus denizens on the harlequin frame

Flake.

She dresses, ribbons of carious grey,

humid in equal rays of mellow sun-set.

And today, splendid, yet resplendent, 

vignettes we made up to foment;

We vent in relent, and now it sinks,

a minute's hand, she lets them think. 

Decorations emerge, contours of naked wear,

they despair, glances of hopeless stare.

The vestige is still anoint, placed level,

with fortitude, she dazzled and swiveled. 

Herein, the drivel was inappropriate,

it dictated as we stretched, as sedate.

Soon, her penchant for me will softly clear,

as when I scribble these lines, the intention disappears.

Stretch.

Your ankle's neat perfection,

and the sections I don't mention,

as without intention, its just the toes;

what have I done to fall so hard?

I get up, knowing you'd stay frozen,

as I'd dash towards the aspen;

my toes - dull, slowly waxed and shunned,

singing another acoustic version.

A knock in disremembered rhymes,

frosted egos in echo-less times;

an equal pretense gets waste

you moribund, paste my brief distaste.

These fluid strides result in quarrel,

while I panic, you gather and jangle;

and entangled, you travel away,

I pinned in my carrel, a horrid day.

Litter.

An army of quiet red ants slips,

slithering through this arid torn;

in twelve harmless beatific minutes,

slaying a day already woebegone. 

These ants are as glad as a clam,

promenading across the marble floor;

spoiling my inebriated claptrap,

for now I can't pretend to ignore.

As they sink 'neath the stills, witless,

in movement - sedate and wintry;

my chary reasoning is nonchalant,

whistle-stopping 'em out of misery.

Flood.

I'll drift off, quietly immersed, 

sour as a lone paper machete;

rainy mornings ebb and wane,

as damp tenor deteriorates.

Hesitating, I weather, bicker

only to later make amends;

for I rescind her for happiness,

and with it, the sweeping winds.

She's at sea, but simmer'd down, 

nonplussed, in keeping, unexcited;

pleated skin at its capricious best,

her whims equally short sighted.

Now I'm untroubled in monsoon,

dusting megrims 'neath the windowsill;

as we eschew from cribbing much,

the zephyr that died at standstill.

Acute.

The face - blithe, typically tickled pink,

she sinks, in ink, a bit out of sync.

Untrusting, she's next on my pepper stage,

titillates, thrills in merry language.

So much for those salad days wherein,

when satiated, we lay elated, 

immaculately poised, flooded and outdated,

drafted in sentences, solemnly tempted.

But back then, an overdose of punctuation did delight,

as you disliked this silly exercise and,

when we'd slowly recite, it got impolite. 

so stop bicker, quieten, as now I alone rewrite.

I scrawl every verse that hit a crestfallen note,

each woebegone quote, that you'd connote.

A melancholic display, relentlessly piquant,

as you'd foment, every surprise element. 

Crease.

Just the woebegone me, silently;

tracing you cerise, in scornful melancholy.

Within such clamor, canvas won't matter,

the ink dries grey, amidst dismal chatter.

A listless self - crestfallen, a bit crisscrossed, 

I accost myself, rattled and lost.

This harmless watercolor, equally piquant;

with corrupt expression, I make confront.

Herein she runs riot, unhurriedly slaying herself;

her wilting frame, barren against my caramel shelf.

Arrant.

The worn forlorn, looks have cried,

allure aside, it slips and hides.

Foment, chide, and let it ease,

she asks nothing, I stagger and freeze.

A broken bone, excitement will drip,

stumbling lips and lost courtship.

Running my fingers through her wrists,

I fold across, her fortress like fist,

she's submissive, for I won't resist;

now caving in, she insists we persist.

 

Agony, severely anoint with shades

and paints we should've dispel have fell,

within which she's as spoilt for choice, 

as vacant walls with venerable pastel.

So pipe down, drown someplace afar,

undo your coat, love steadily chars.

It scars, while its carcass mutely ruins,

wanes, ebbs, and scuttles as her skin,

which avers of how she wins, unrest's,

lest she suggests it bests my protest.

Skid and slide, as this melancholy shall

ribbon hope, in sotto-voce, make away,

into the delay which held us close,

wherein I yearn for you to stay.

Nerves! You submit into despair,

as scattered words make verbs rare;

and you remit in helplessness,

a forlorn pulchritude you wear...