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After the slumber

In a wooden coat

In this odd, rigid bed

Mockery of a Dry wry winter time

Lazy fizzogs of a sunny day

Fuzzy roads of an archaic city

I am wake and muted like a ghost

Pondering about the day lost in between

Dreams and Dry Wry Winter time

They coalesced in a volatile whisper

Piercing their raked rhythms

Silence of the skins

Running deeper down the canals

Carnage of the cursory lands

Living in the fringes of my face

I saw them coming from nowhere

Strange fingers of sulky heads

Strange fingers of silver fossils

Bones and marrows are rotten and old

Yet my sleek tongue is not yielding to you

Tinges of tremors left inside the nerves

They carved a fissure in my head

It could witness the wilderness of my dreams

When I was sleeping, like a miserable moron

I was all abrasive about love and other soft cottons

I was naked and had negated all the wise wenches

Viscous nights and Vestige of vines

They could not console my convulsions

May be the reason why I slept once again this time

In this dry wry winter noon, like a wobbling wind of wickedness