The Obsidian:

What is perfect?
Something, everything.
What is love?
An enchanting spell that once cast, 
lasts forever.
I'll be there staring,
ticking, ticking,
the clock is ticking,
I think love is on the moors,
And I'm a finite distance away,
wondering,
searching,
for the mulberry rock
the satiny obsidian,
I must have ate it,
though unwillingly,
the hard gut,
Oh, the hard gut,
I have a poison within me.

And love is on the moors,
on the moors, I see the serene gate,
I kiss the realm at the eleventh hour,
and retch the obsidian shuddering,
for the portal and the sorcerer
to hoist I for I was dead as a doornail,
O I beseech the wizard of the great
world and enamour me,
my sins and virtue have fallen
at the arms of thee.

I think love is on the moors,
sheepish, burning and hefty,
I think love is on the moors,
I bleed as my heart bleeds,
and my front is frozen,
'tis frozen from the angst
of the enormities and shield
the heart, the dear silly heart,
I pray one prays when one's 
loved murdered,
I pray to cleanse myself of the obsidian.
And love is on the moors,
rearward the threshold
of the cloudless sky,
placidity, mellifluence and dote,
rearward love,
was the spanner
in the works,
the sharp and dark obsidian.

What is perfect?
The love, the portal to peace
and the fine bearing obsidian,
the peace, the anguish, the heat,
for I have bawled and mourned,
to triumphs and flights to the gate,
Oh, I pity I shan't hark back, 
on my death's door,
for this- "Something, Everything."

PRANATI PATHAK

10.9.2022

18:31