Carved In Stone

 

i missed the train to Khajuraho

missing sex carved eroticism in stone

like always in anxiety, whether skin or bone

 

i took the train back from Gwalior

taking unnecessary deep thought out detours

like always in denial, if only time could soak some more

 

tucked in comfortable bed sheets now, i write

of the family i assume to be

migrating to unreserved uncomfortable shores

sweeping off as a sepia tone, out to be bought for a lucrative lore

 

i have been told, time and again, for

time and again it had to be, but i do remember now

“you must take an idea and guide it through its entirety,

time and again, be the fuck you be, a cobbler, a king or a peasant queen

but be the truest fuck that is yet to be seen”

 

oh how i missed the train to Khajuraho

missing the Mexican lady i lost at the station too

like always ever lurking, whether back or forth

 

oh how i took the train back from Gwalior

taking lust as lying filth on the floor

like always mistaken, if only signs would reappear once more