Saturday, 15 December 2007


It would be nice to win you tomorrow in negotiated surrenders. And in anticipation, I prepare for a defeat, though; to hang precariously and entangled in the cobwebs of the ensuing fate. Buried under piles of emotional debris, I would than taste the salty sweats for days. When your secret smiles imprison me, I believe I would go limp and demand some extra warmth. I would also unravel the mysteries of the nights and bury them when the daylights break and pretend that I knew nothing of those pains.
I know, you know black magic that can bring torrential rains forever or you may even prefer to take fresh revenge on a prisoner in chains--raw. Your sharp nails would then bleed my bodies to nourish my soul. With every passing moment, now a day, the possibilities turn uncertainties and the uncertainties—aborted possibilities; of gnawing hopes. This appears to be the only rule of the game.