The world is a
voyeur
in this souk of
words
it constantly
demands
Nudes of the souls
mine are mostly
self-portraits
in pastels and greys
palettes get limited
by the lenses of
joy and pain
life spins like a
wheel
Time is a razor
twin-blades - love
and deceit
unlimited close
shaves
of too many trieds
and could-have-beens
With Hemingway
in the trench of
depression
I learnt that
the heart of a
writer
is their only bait
Memories nibble on
it
shred by shred
maybe that's why
most cages
are made of ribs
In an old playlist
-" ....you may have
my number
you can take my name
but you'll never
have my heart"
The wild thing
In my cage
Howls
and remembers
someone sing
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