Ink Blots

February 14, 2011
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They rustle soft whispers
and fume us with musk.
Their words create twisters
we dare not to trust.

Slight coils of my stomach
a flutter to true love.
Such slant-full deceiving
lays white hot as a dove.

Is it true that my tears
are meant more for the unreal?
Can it be that my fears
come as darkly surreals?

Imagination is my beast
and it sleeps still a slumber,
till one bite of new feasts
awakens it a cumber.

Not so normal my time
submerged in fictional others.
My last bits of attention
fixed on these new unnumbers.

I enter worlds of aplenty
and to exit is most fun.
A big pool of emotions
when any one is done.

May it be that great wonders
as these shall still stay.
Keeping impostures and fakes
at doors fast at bay.

Who wants the incongruous?
Who wants the unsuited?
Who wants ill-matched visionary
thats to be highly reputed?

It’s the breathing script that I live for.
It’s the backed paper binding
I desire.
It’s turning of words,
that my taste so acquires.

So with care and deep ardor
do I love that soft rustle.
Giving all the more reasons
to slowly let go and escape from
life’s bustle.

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