the burial         (with eyes of purdah and throat in tsunamic lumps)

   
 
 
 
how crude {and justified} it is, this penanced  
curfew of blanked night’s silence-  
 
 
{curbing and hammering my wayward pathos  
of a child’s unregulated exuberance that’s  
exceedingly rogueing freeformed nascent  
breaths in love?}  
 
 
devoid of even the cooing to stridulating echoes  
 
alluring towards a weirdly clinical exorcism- dicing  
strangulations on this (assumptive) status quo stillness  
in perseverance  
 
 
a habituated pensiveness runs in and out  
as chaotic trishul in triadic extensions  
against palmistry’s janmic fixtures  
 
as to either  
be a self-sought refuged insider in access of your visions  
that’s blinded in the questioning invisibilities otherwise  
or to be catapulted somehow to His subliming elevations
to preview the mysterious spacetimes of His arts of destiny  
or just be a loathsome mass  
drowning to hermitic rockbottoms in (unrequited) love?