Thursday, July 28, 2011


 A rusty night meandering in time, looking
for a close companion,
harrowing the meadows in the sky, homes
to some troubled divas, holding
hands, pouring the soul out which hasn’t yet
bore existence

Silently hears the shine all through
till the travelers ride back
on their horses
at dawn and the ladies get dressed back
in some invisible drapery
concealing their hands in hands,
pass to a pyre of valentine ashes.

Among a million celestial poems, some
reaching to our confession sphere,
extraordinarily along
paves a path, a pattern,
to adorn the
dryness of this shell we live in,
the nights we hid in.


Fireblossom said...

I like the pyre of valentine ashes!

Susie Swanson said...

Among a million celestial poems. Love this Monika..Susie