Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Sudden severances and sordid sentencings to solitary slumber

Force my qualms with courtship to erratically increase in number.

~But I remain bound to Eros

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

I bear bags brimming with breadcrumbs beaten, bashed, and merged,

Saving for seasons of scarcity when sources of sustenance are purged.

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Carrying coffins containing cauterised crumbs of compassion,

Traipsing over terrain doused with deceit, all ardour grows ashen.

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Riddled with a need for cognisance that can't be sated, 

Evidently embodying con'ndrums conceived to be cremated. 

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Planks and plys overrun with maggots and teeming with termites

Constitute the dwelling within which I attempt to find respite.

~riddled with rumination

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Fractures flourish furtively from forehead to feet,

Enveloping all virtue, moulding me into malformed meat.

~of ubiquitous deformities

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

I was flung into a forest filled with fiends foraging for flesh...

To surely survive, in that vulgar weave I must be enmeshed.

~Of the steps that must be taken to blend in

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Desecrated, doused in delirium, drenched by drought,

Driven to decide, to choose a chalice churning with doubt.

~Of desperation induced by thirst

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Decimated dearly by docile dreams devoid of decadence,

I wear flesh rendered fragile by unassailable irreverence.

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Throughout my bosom, muffl'd breaths pulse flummoxed and frustrated,

For in the wake of the truths I attempted to ingest, my larynx lies lacerated.

~Of the revelations that render one mute

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

This band veneered with velvet, made to lovingly lock in place your silken strands,

Now rests attached to the hymn that travels from my bosom to my hands.

~Of the scrunchie on my wrist

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Home to hindrances, this hearth holds hardly any heat,

Dilapidated and damp, forged from dearth and deceit.

~Of the families founded on falsehoods

©Shubhojit Sen

dilapidated - ruined because of age or neglect

dearth - a scarcity of something

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Tethered to the malady of regularly requiring sustenance,

I frequently find myself having no choice but to trust tenants.

~Of having to rent yourself out to corporations

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

I intently imbibe inscriptions rendered by reservoirs of rot & rue,

Unflinchingly perusing pages once dampened by briny dew.

~Of having been desensitised to grief-ridden verses

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

Formed from faltering fragments fostering festering fervour,

I fail to be a reformer, fit to be nothing but an observer.

~Of the mortal shell that must adhere to the debilitating norms of society

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

I assumed an aversion to adjustment, thinking your adornment to be stubborn,

But at your gentle behest, the tremors from your bosom it closely governs.

~Of the bracelet embracing your wrist

©Shubhojit Sen

[scribbler-stripped-bare]

I erected fences forged from ferrum unalloyed, fooled into thinking otherwise,

And now this fort faces the fury of the winds, courting a dampening demise.

~Of our unsuccessful attempts to stay away from love

©Shubhojit Sen