The day bleeds slowly, blots across the blackening sky, red drips into the nothingness, darkness overpowers the light; I fly back to my lonely nest, hunted by the crescent moon, only the stars offer me sight, I long to be embraced by half-death.
I fly across the desolate wilderness of my weary soul, seeking destiny to this life; before my ashes turn to ashes dust returns to the dust. A few more breaths will end the day.
Saurin Desai’s first love led to a roaring affair that's ongoing now since nearly 30 years. At the innocent age of 8 he met a comic book that whacked him on the head (pun intended) and he fell heels-over-head, literally (pun not intended). But being commitment-phobic, he had a couple of dalliances: with engineering, jobs & businesses, before succumbing to the seduction of the writer's life and giving up everything to become lazier than he ever was. Through all of this he continued to rendezvous with poetry. And after one very, very, long pregnant pause, the poems that had owned him all these years recently agreed to stop possessing him and start haunting the world. And, here we are..."Solitude and Other Obsessions"
whispers… through the dark deranged portals you evoke fear filled with angelic fervor on it’s textual base yet we dig much deep then ever before cries in the dark will light the spark of what we need to know still
You start abbreviating the pretention, caring for the end of a perennial revenge – of slain truth, finding depth in arguments which will spawn more violence. Come my friend, come. Sit with me. Let us search together the solitary death
Well and it’s once in a lifetime reinvention magic kinda like a secret superstition miracle of a the souls great salvation love found me just in time, the kind I thought I’d never find the kind that only happens once
On periphery of gestures and casts I speak for fading integrity while a fossil of a scream was stolen from the womb of language. On becoming silent, an untitled truth shakes sensibility. Small vignettes track the battleships of calligraphy. The
Morning came and dreams walked out, A savage life was knocking my door With harsh iron hands holding an unpalatable casket Loading grey flowers of troubles having colorful multitudes Immaterial my blinking desire, my aversion and perturb It ran in