Suspension of belief/disbelief

Poem # 53

It was a cold evening, the December of my life.

Hands in hands, just the two of us,

Traversing through the garden—

Supreme beyond the garden of sin.

And the moon prostrating on your

Little feet, clad in muddled white shoes.

The smell of your anxious sweat electrifying the olfactory nerves

Like a zillion tons of coffee beans extracted in a single shot.

And your warm saliva imbibing in my soul,

Like the guilt of a murder etched in a young killer.

And your chiseled, mind-boggling eyes,

Equipped to gaslight anyone's disembowelment and exenteration of every organ,

With utmost happiness, Just to see them shining out of amazement.

The mascara embellishing herself with your lashes,

The nail paints more animated than all the rainbows ever appeared

On the godly sky. And look how your spark made this inept pauper

Blurt out unkempt poems, with the feeling

That is the earthiest and yet the noblest on this planet.

Nay, the cosmos.