The perfect poem seeps into your skin
Leaving that right mixture of salt love sun criticism
Like mother who strokes your hair
Just that way.
You know its strange touch
It's descent
It's nonsense and sense
Both poignant
Like a lover you cannot change

Profound.
Impressive
Well made.
Carelessly
Carefully
Unknowingly.

That kind of  teasing rhetoric
That kind of after taste
Like renewed friendships
Like love after multiple deaths.

Great poetry,
True poetry?
Some poetry?

You know it?
Like afterlife? Like soul?
Like victory?

That perfect poem of losing yourself
And finding it on a yellow page
Another day.
Ending awkwardly.

Like life. Like death.

Monsoons

Its the season of moody rainshowers that are here

To lash out at your long-dried jaundiced conscience

Season of peeling off of love

Of births of insects, grass, and babies

Of new madness, new skin,

New frailties, new lust, new deeds

Till your new lover, or is he old

Peels off your dreams from

Eyes now too moist 

Drunk on the moody rains.