not just 17, its count infinity:  ruinous soul's (un)fortunate curse, my ghazni

 
 
 
southeasterly chunk  
of massive greys, a thickety  
darkening dome  
fiercely enshrouds  
in opened clawhead
of clasped lightning streaks  
& threatening thunderbeats  
across a stranded  
and 'shiv'ering  
universe  
 
 
four jasmines  
in twilight's tender plucks  
despite the tempest blows  
and boisterous bumblebees  
get blown away  
to distorted destinies  
& left in an instance  
as lifeless remnants
of deepbled assaults  
 
half cut tahiti lime  
in the sipped greentea cup  
resurfaces  
from its drowned osmotic  
times, an extracted skull  
gorily emptied  
of its succulent  
& segmented  
memories  
 
 
sanctum sanctorum  
of this temple soul  
awaits its ultimate  
plunderer..its ghazni
 
neither a stable slave  
of the ghouri dynasties
nor an extravagance  
of the mingling moghuls  
in a blandly reigning  
permanence  
 
no expectations my lord
except it to be the most  
barbaric plunderer  
recorded ever  
untiringly  
in tries of a holistic invasion  
to not comprehend  
but feel until the depths & edges  
as you wholly takeover
my leftovers or whatever  
till  
my horrific ruins  
feebly resonate just
your historic incidence  
of 'the' brutal indulgence  
 

my pathetic conquerer  
 
there is no further escape  
from my wholesome curse  
eternally mummified  
to your soul