T. M. Isaac

Perhaps, after all, it's nothing but a ruptured artifice;
A misconstrued prism formed of fractured isms.
It could as well, of-course, be nothing more than art at ease,
A pseudo-lust conceived with nihilism.
...

As the birds sing, outside there are certain things
I think I rather not think about for now.
As the birdsong strings loose harmony to discord,
fretting the golden, beamlike strings with green,
...

These words, I know, are saturated with pyrite luminescence,
Bathing in that golden taint of faded essence;
Have I had only the resolve to let you know how I truly feel,
Free from the constraints of myopic metaphors,
...

The snickering man, on the corner of the street,
seems to know me from a different place;
perhaps, he knows who I was in a different lifetime.
His eyes running up and down my tired clothes,
...

It truly is a perfect scene: You, I,
These brightly coloured residues,
unspoken words and feigned easiness
smeared around us, a glorious composition.
...

Who would have guessed such dreaded emptiness
might linger in things too beautiful to name?
Her glass-worked eyes shine disharmonious,
blooming fields of white, oozing intensity.
...

I have not the faintest clue as to how my ideas have fainted so miserably.
Perhaps, they weren't as well formulated as I thought they were
or as splendorous and witty as I believed them to be.
...

She seems willingly weary.
Lost, it seems, inside insistent thoughts;
time spiraling, twirling up and down the room as she hums
monotonous, muffled, tunes to herself.
...

You said it left you happy-sad,
the words resounding vaguely;
Yet, not for green vistas glad
with the touch of the sun, red
...

No more will the sullen sound of sunken flowers devour my sleep;
no more will vapid images surpass desire only to succumb to loss;
no more will, to will shrill abstractions into animated matter,
it doesn't matter.
...

When promises mean less,
When thoughts turn violent
For the sake of violence,
When words are mere representations,
...