Sometimes he becomes Frost...

Such an afternoon
She when Her beauty bedecks
Like a cool blue saree draped
With white ice like scoops
Printed all over Her superb existence...
he turns a Frost like
Never a Frost God
But miles to tread before embracing the end
Of a beginning of a Start
Big
Of the small
And Small of the smallest...

A taste of a savoury wine
White...
Delicious
Making him hungry for more...
More of Agape
And Philos interwoven
And no no gas oven
To get choked ,
No blood shed
Like the boy in pajamas striped
Once faced at a chamber...
Nothing like a timber
Broken
Shredded...
But a timber finely tuned such
That it sends music much
To the air...

The afternoon blessed
With She be coming
A blue saree such
With white paint brush
Spraying whitest sublime...
Blessed be
Only
An afternoon...
Sure...
Pure.

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