It is here I find vines of longings;
not everyone can decipher geography.
I stumble on the protruding roots and
get my soul scuffed
I bleed hueless,
what becomes and what rises from nascency
of prayers is as different as ember and smoke
and similar like good omen and star fall.
It is difficult to reabsorb,
light streams through canopy set to bespeckle
the emerald earth, this is the gorgeous metaphor
I stepped onto to find your still economy
how my body contains your absence seem to be
a seed-burst wavelength synonymous to sounds
of sad ghazals grown tall in you
as if this is not the language that demands rent
from tongues. Witness the water go through invincible
landscapes, how could I consent, theatrical tree
shadows wrap me as if to make me lose the parts
of myself when called to moss of despair.
Nothing in the world thrives shapeless,
even bird calls can be sculpted like boulders,
fossils muck up their rhythms while winding patterns
as this tangled tapestry opens up revealing
fragments of me emitting green flares of
intactness of you in me
of me in you...
along wind that marvels, mouth
of rain expanding fertile definition for
distance breathing between us
Purbasha Roy is a writer from Jharkhand, India. Publication credits include Rigorous magazine, Golden Walkman magazine, Eye to the telescope, Teesta journal, The Raven Review, Everything in Aspic and elsewhere.
Featured image by Purbasha Roy
