airs of the rarefied us tend to an eternity of nothingness

 

 
her presence  
 
 
 
is music and melancholy  
of the mystified greys and blues  
of the haunting moonless nights  
digs a shiverdrumming nostalgia
 
stares in an undifferentiated  
creed  of sanctified blooms  
almost intimidating  
in its blinding  
intensities  
 
-a lively writhing third eye of the black hole
than thousand clinically bleached suns  
solely amassed in scorching down her  
battling rosaceous yes- still  
held still in miraging hope
 
 
 
is music and melancholy  
 
so much so repetitive  
to be wholly benumbing  
 
an ironic absence  
 
in its gathered prominence  
 
those luscious darkly clotted duskiness  
splitting unto bittering opacity patches  
- layered as thickening scums, innately  
woven in lightning silken folds
-flutters to mirrored shine within  
in as if swiftly collapsible
flashed angular memories  
 
 
 
 
“i am always around”
 
“to vanish forever?”
 
“vanish? who?”
 
“it’s rather ‘what” than ‘who’ "  
 
 
 
what it needs

the breathful  
of its inhale
 
you are  
 
that which somehow  
you try hard to swallow  
the simplistic nod in sync
 
still you softly breathe in  
her risen ashen dusts  
 
from far so within