Wednesday, 12 August 2009

The smell crawls in concentric circles, and tickles my lips as I sleep. The taste is all wrong. Languages dance with tangled toes, in erratic patterns traced by the wildest ruminations of a tattered streetchild. We step lightly from our lofty castles into heat-baked gullies, surrounded by mudhuts and hungry eyes. Duty-bound, we do what we must.

The smile on your face hurts me, you know.

4 comments:

Aporia said...

Woah. Your tragedies are such wonders.

Dreaminglass said...

Who said these tragedies are mine?

Dreaminglass said...

Who said these are tragedies at all?

mehreenkasana said...

Now this, my friend, hit hard.