A ghazal

 

A concerto of wistfulness in froggy croaks arcs and laces in my ghazal

Flowers of lexically bastardized ideas imbibe the verses of vases in my ghazal

One legged belle-lettres written piping hot for the beloved with no prowess

At risk of sedition, ironically, for the janu burger there will be no praises in my ghazal

 

Bees marshalled like beady seeds onto the rim of a slice of watermelon

Poetry wrangles to sham such rife notions at myriad places in my ghazal

 

If the white escorts green, the green must always whelm the white

In camaraderie with reality, I relegate the minorities to the cramped spaces in my ghazal

 

At my familial home, once dangling crystal balls are now crushed to shards by modernization

No profound image in any couplet, this sentimental singularity was the chassis in my ghazal

 

My strife with writing is the muted nature of the endeavor, the product never speaks its meaning

Or maybe the silence speaks of the mediocre nature of phrases in my ghazal

 

A Happy meal of apocryphal serotonin valued higher than the celibate happiness in a tablet of Esglit

In this land, of my country in decay, a cynical picture I’ve painted in stages in my ghazal

 

Near the end, the mind itches yet again to hold the beloved by ink between index and the thumb

Albeit a tenet’s infringement, her presence will break the fast; serve as an oasis in my ghazal

 

My mahi will spend another Eid away from me and my bewailing, not for much more years

K defeats M to live before -iss in a mental Manichean heresy, as words turn into kisses in my ghazal

 

Mehwar, of these slippery toad-like warty words, takes your leave gratefully now

Before my newfound ardor, craft, contentment disjoint the homeostasis in my ghazal