I had a seat underneath the raunchy guise
trying to colour those devious skies with my stares
and holding the clouds with my thighs.
Thought that I couldn't paint pictures with my words anymore,
So instead, pushed muses to touch my veira low.

.

It seemed relentless at first,
Replacing the ink in my hand with a plume.
Contemplated on whether to call it
A quill or a beholder.
I chuckled, nevertheless.
And tried to push the buttons harder
And saw my gauche screaming comfort.
Strange how it always supplied venom, I thought.
But here it was, rather transmitting succour.

.

Dwindling beneath,
the abstruse of the pictures painted inside my mind's gallery seemed to overflow.
The pillow covers woke up fresh,
With the cotton balls jumping a bit overboard.
The sultry frangrance squalled heirs of the blooming florets,
As the room heated up with picturesques.

The pictures painted from the strokes of proficiency and mind games
Appeared to drown inside the scribbled affairs
With the plumes, now sucked by inks
craving translations and connotations.

.

Paper wasn't holding back,
But the notions were.
Daisies and lilies seemed to dazzle,
as the anecdotes finally shone brighter, only to look miscellaneous within the crowded epitaphs.

.

Yet again,
I had a seat underneath the raunchy guise
Only now, with a glass of wine.
A crumpled brown notebook rested nicely in my palms,
Imbibing those weights of freedom,
And reliving the olden compositions that seldom prod from thine.

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