Q u i d a m

Outstretched hands

          He, who had never taste of the heat and flames twerk

in the spiral ham, knows no values of outstretched hands

for like clustered prison, they seek for liberty—

          She, puddling with cold words— gifted infidelity

grey doves, cry in anger, ivory glasses revoke

lips moving in quivering rain, honour lilies bloom in break.

         They howls at the flues, bursting out in the strings attached—

Sweat, dripping out little by bit : forehead gives stinky hits,

"What else do you need?" asked with urgency—

         
           I shake my head vigorously, stood for long by looking

at the shop window, the hustle time was slow behind me,

hands down, outstretched in begging form, "Give me something."

          She, worn in black gleams— said nothing

her face veiled in falls facade, leaves no clue of muffled hearing—

Some coins flip in silver and glow instantly, "Go back and never say."

         Middle aged man, rattles in hurry, rings of sound

ebb slowly in the chaos, I couldn't see her smile but—

her curled fist bump with a moustache man, perhaps she got her liberty tax.

           It's a wonder, what's done by extension of hands—

it's stretched out for mercy, or deceit —

juggling balls, trying to figure— where gold flames melt to dwelt.

— 27th July, 2023