Deva and Devi: Two strands of the same thread

Of all my virtues lose morals, of societal perceptions weaving till we follow someone, something, and somewhere in vain

Born and bred, Raised in dread, of symphony merging on the concocted thread

Musings start with hairs and knuckles, weights and dumbles, glare and aromatic candles

For the two turns right, and the other ends wrong, forever lowborn if your identity is foolishly obtuse and young

For men can’t cry, nor raid a sky, it traps footholds of feminine rain that can’t pretend to buy

Care, Caress bloated to fall ill-fated with contraptions, like the men never oozed his sexuality beyond his conventional domino domination.

Tricksters come to avenge your disdain, for weakening strengths and harrowing pain, yet the opposite of you lies in the inner sanctum of the house lost in pain

The gravel unravels and the sands get thrown to your eyes, of innate and intricate spiraling flights, the eye caught up in a red sore.

Not everyone can let their eyes become sore, for there is gore to overhaul your core, to bear the horrors of someone’s roar and unleash what they call the plight of silent uproar

The streets turn dirty, and the night turns haughty, of all the sigmas and deltas bait each other and play the gender of games, of one end to another, of spectrums to linings, of rainbow colors to pink and blue. What ifs of traditional lost cultures.

The pink gets enveloped by dark blue

For only black can absorb anything and everything of dark blue, of an inkling within, as the deeper you is just dark and dark like the visuals when we close our eyes, pink, blue, magenta, mahogany which color we see, we see all of them densely flutter and getting consumed by darkness.

Of cosmos that lay in bare hands crumbling, of sorrows, aching

And build a tomb of lies, to fail the mistress and the master, to gain control over the mind,

To shed the armor and let the gore take over, Crying intuitions and hoppity hop the dreams lurk,

Societal tragedies are often handled in books of mysteries, One littered with the full disgust of a rotten fart,

With a smell profusely carrying heat for generations and building aberrations and cataclysmically falling in the pit of enchanting trepidations claiming no reparations.

Yet the identities kneel to pray and assert their will, of not being the holy grail but being lost in the dungeons of hell

For who decides who is who, like the lost suction when emotions are trapped,

For the feminine suffers without money, as she was never told to earn for herself,

That her body is not a paradise, lost only to the gaze and lust of men,

A substance will always be your substance

An amazement will be your own doing

Morality will be your version of predictability of structuring lives, beings, and essences.

Loving every day, every damn day, for one is happy they are not the version of the people they entice and formulate themselves in their minds as idolaters, flaky and impure

For purity is not a stamp, it’s the heart trapped in an assuaged coldness and yet I forgive you, and that is purity.

The sorrows heal, brazen definition kneels, and we move and move in rejoicing to the top of the hill in dark blue, pink, or rainbow colors.

We either flutter in the prism and fall on as white light or be the seven colors we claim to be after the prism splits us,

Or just the blue and pink we believe to be, or the mixing of all that’s black, the core of an unending all, a void that is deeper, wider, and scarier

And we enter slowly, steadily and fastly……………….

Thanks a lot for taking some precious time out of your schedule to read my work. If you like it, you can read some of the other poems I have linked below. I hope you have a great day! Thanks for stopping by!!!

Characters like ‘Forrest Gump’ need something more than kind words

I Start Scribbling and You Came Back Shoving Me into the Black Hole

Roses and Thorns: A bewildering spring caught between hot and cold

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