Ahsan Bhatt Poetry

Shuddering in slow-mo,
Corporeal youth of torment.
Hands to migrate,
nomads of tendon and ire.
Hunger for the frostbite
of the chill of your exhale.
The expression of drastic
consequences of actions.
No luxury we afford.
Jump off the wagon
and come ride with me
on my high horse.

Gesticulating the mood
to the cool sweet blue
of the air, the soul.
Breathe deep and revel
in this gentile exhalation.
Just partake in this effort
of coordinated sustinance.
Bring yourself to the forefront
Veritable fantasies...realities.
Mysteriously devine
a moment in this place.
This time.

Poet: J. P. Davies