I stand in the rain
to let the drops
wash away,
Some touches
that you once left
on my bare skin.
And yet they roll
on me like you
did eons ago,
Everytime when
my traitor guards
did let you in.
I come back inside
with more of you
all over me,
Defeated again,
to those untamed
poetries of sin.
– Arin
The lazy morning light
gently caresses
her tired acheing body.
She has woken after
a lonely night
of longing for her lover.
Dressed again in that saree
like how she used to
everytime he came to her.
And how across the night
he gently removed all drapes,
moistening her butter skin
with his kisses.
It would ache, it would
oh so much, and yet
she would want some more.
He didn’t come last night.
Not the night before.
And not before.
She is tired today.
Her dropping aachal is tired.
Her parched skin is tired.
Her dry lips are tired.
Her waiting eyes are tired.
Her greying locks are tired.
Her broken heart is tired.
The night aches, but no longer
brings him home,
neither does the light.
– Arin
Don’t sink into his words
For his verses are poison.
Dug out from the deeps
Where that sun of love
has long forgotten
to shine.
Don’t give into his words
For his verses are poison.
Where a thirst remains
despite all rains, and a
lustful rotten sin is
now divine.
– Arin
I wish,
I could tell you
of that moment
When from
my poison of life
You became
my balm of death.
But then,
When have lost poets
given out their dark
Where all their
fire and tears reside
And become
their songs instead.
– Arin
Dark Wordweaver 