She yearned to
become a spy
yet she failed
so miserably
She walked
the long walk
and dressed
in hued tones
She hushed the
sharp tongues
and asked for
bad karma
For those
that would
play her—
the good ones
obeyed her
Lila yearned to
become a spy
yet she failed
so miserably
She wore her
dark shades,
unravelled
dark plots
/ with feline intention
and birdlike precision /
Yet her wings
she did not
want to
get
w
e
t
So she’d run
under cover
on rainy
days
It was always
warmer
by that
fireplace
She yearned
to become a spy—
Yet she failed
so miserably
We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure
v e i l s
Souls almost blurred
by shy, dry tears
fears hinted in those
faces—dark and
p a l e
Oppressive times,
so stark and fearful,
Venetian masks
silencing those worry
t a l e s
We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure
v e i l s
What face we’d find
under such attires—
question harassing our
snotty brains, those
d a y s
We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure
v e i l s
Oppressive times,
so stark and fearful,
there was only so much
hope to fight those
w a i l s
Momentum for change
Lost opportunity? —
We’d never wish
for those sad days to
s t a y
We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure
v e i l s
What face we’d find
under such attires—
colourful masks
silencing our worried
faces—dark and
p a l e
night of the monsters
land of the ghosts
fighting the dragons—
all the night hosts
flight or
free-falling
at dusk—
such dark ride
wild and
sky diving—
a spiralling
mind
night of the monsters
land of the ghosts
fight of the dragons—
by rugged coasts
flight or
free-falling—
the sound of
false tunes
those wicked
noises,
all the sky
croons
play to deaf ears
through all glossy trails—
flight or free-falling,
smokey travails
night of the monsters
land of the ghosts
fighting the dragons
in nightmares they boast
flight or
free-falling
at night—
such dark ride
all but
divining—
a spiralling
mind
cold-blooded smile
and somber cues
you think
you laugh —
but
inside she’s
s m i l i n g
her fingers now
holding her
serpent brush —
as she dyes
new days
with ocher
embracing
l a y e r s
black stilettos found
in her long-forgotten
chest of time
nearly crying out —
barefoot days
a r e o v e r
while her canvas,
fair
sets those
h
e
e
l
s
alight,
cold-blooded
s m i l e —
stomping feet
through
p l i g h t
her fingers, now,
firmly hold
the brush—
as she paints
new days
with ocher
embracing
l a y e r s
high-heeled,
great
shine,
warm-blooded,
s l i g h t ,
you think
she cries —
but,
inside,
s h e ’ s
s m i l i n g
i tried too hard
to catch a glimpse
of your soul
on your
fragile
m i r r o r
the one
I forgot to clean
when I got
home
really late at
n i g h t
falling asleep
while fighting
ghosts I’d only
heard about,
not even quite,
i m a g i ne d
for they
never
really existed,
all but a fake reflection
of your silent,
deadly,
maddened,
b i t e
D
r D
u r
m u
m ,
little women's army
splatter walls—
dressed in
war face
p a i n t
magic hands
can turn out
wonders,
now they're sleeping—
shan't be
awoken
y e t
close
the shutters,
no light
streaming—
they deserve
a darkened
dreaming
b e dD
r D
u r
m u
m ,
little women's army—
splatter walls
dressed in
war face
p a i n t
you plucked
out
too many
of my
cyan-tinted
f e a t h e r s
while
modelling
me into a
stuffed
poetic
b i r d
wings
got too
heavy with
your lyrically
infused
f e a r s
so i couldn’t
fly away
from your
collector’s
palace—
y e t
until tonight—
when i
slide out
of this darkened
room of
n i g h t m a r e s
leaving you behind,
sleeping,
in your
tortuous,
silent,
o d d
r h y m e d
b e d
those true
identities
w e c a m e t o
i n h a b i t
yet only
lived
i n l i t e r a r y
w o r l d s
unwritten
stories
of our
t r u e
d e s i r e s
in rhyme
embellished
nice pace,
s w i f t
w o r d s
identity-
empty
f i c t i o n a l ,
i m a g i n e d
lyrically
beautiful,
ghostly,
s a v a g e d ,
f o r c e d
those true
identities
w e c a m e t o
i n h a b i t
yet only
glimpsed
through
d a r k
t h i c k
s m o k e
Smoking
French
poetry whore
cigarettes
o n e,
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
i wet my lips,
i puff—
frail
particles of
d i f f u s e d
s m o k e
S
d u
n m e r
u r
o
i bat my eyelids,
i stare away.
and puff—
o n e
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
still no
words, yet
i perceive
some
d a r k
v e r s e
s m o k e
has subtly
embraced
— p o s s e s s e d —
my f e a t h e r e d
d r e a m s
and,
while
i type
a widowed
v e r s e —
for a poem
i may
have dreamed—
but will
never, in ink,
b i r t h
smoking
French
poetry whore
cigarettes
o n e,
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
a drunken
song
waltzes
around
i n
m y
h e a d
“they’re not good for you.
he’s not good for you.
stop wasting
y o u r
b r e a t h
a w a y
remember—
smoking
ain’t good
for
the
l i v i n g .”
i n h a l e.
e x h a l e.
s m o k i n g
o n e ,
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
a
subtly
s o o t h i n g
d a r k ,s m o k e d
v e r s e
e
s m
e m e b
c r
a
she wears
a pink dress
to hide
her petulant
d a r k n e s s
turbulently staring
as if she’d been living
the dream and was now
anxiously grasping for
b r e a t h
when she finds out
about reality
she starts
walking the walk—
those platform
s h o e s
the ones that
so very
silently
hurt her
slim
a n k l e s
towering
over his thoughts,
pink-stained,
so very
badly
e n c l o s e d
In the yet to be
unmasked
confines
of his
i m a g i n a t i o n
LannaZee 