Best Poem of T. M. Isaac

Matching Colours
It truly is a perfect scene: You, I,
These brightly coloured residues,
unspoken words and feigned easiness
smeared around us, a glorious composition.

The lens sees what the lens sees,
it misses most. Our faces a little grainy,
the sun reflected off polished smiles
makes it all the more . . .
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Digging!
Perhaps, after all, it's nothing but a ruptured artifice;
A misconstrued prism formed of fractured isms.
It could as well, of-course, be nothing more than art at ease,
A pseudo-lust conceived with nihilism.

The joys of burlap ambrosial virility,
Emit an overwhelming puss-like fragrance,
An encumbrance . . .
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