Monologues of a lonely girl

I.
The hounds of night thoughts are draped in
Golden skins, plucked from the temples of South India
And delicately adorned on their fingers....
You have lost the touch of magic
That resided in tongue, flowing out the spells
Of power. But she has seen you struggle with your
Imagination and rubbish it on the canvas and easel.....
Leave it down, today
And rest your head in the taverns of misty water
A foggy sun and crocodiles swilling
Flowers into raging opium.

II.
You were bargained from the vendors
Of death, scattered around the immensely decorated spire
Of breath and disease. The traders of birth
Seated on leather couches with leopards snarling
In the moon’s gleam. Their whiskers twitched when
You were being traded, packed in umbilical and sealed with sacs.
You flickered your eyes as you zipped past the
Real land of your origin..where churches are always singing
Psalms when moon is lost in cobweb of thunder.
The decorations are maintained by the airy hands
The same hands, that works on your vagina.
Doors have slammed and locked with
Unbreakable vows.
Your return is impossible now.
There is no exit.