Varanasi & Vienna

 There lies a poem in the words I speak to you,

A messed up puzzle in piece,

as far as Varanasi and Vienna.

 

Like two cities that can birth magic if they meet

but fuck geography

for it has put acres of land and fathoms of water 

between two lovers

who are not meant to touch each other,

The poem is lost.

There lies another poem 

at some corner of my tongue

restricted by my cerebrum

pleading me 

to give it words

to find and stich it together with the one which was lost

But fuck this intellect

For the reminisces it holds 

Of experiences

Of expressions

There lie these two poems

One is lost 

.

.

.

.

One I loose.