"And a bird without its wings is a lone and tragic thing"

Breathe not into me a life,
that coils me to a body
in the storm of one breath,
there are thousand such deaths.
and I have flown and found
that the bird comes back to a nest
and brings the twigs strewn,
keeps them with the rest.

And caged and caught
I may sigh to sing,
and trap my violent wings
in the fringe that freedom is
as it seems from the cage
and my wings would cut in rage
and my wings would fall in rage
"And a bird without its wings
is a lone and tragic thing"

Dressed

I wore the dress you brought me
The one with a sash that was to constrict all
the life in me in one title you confer me.
It is a pretty black dress indeed.
Perfect, silhouette cut from my curves
It goes down the length to the hem of my knees.
 Ah well you always thought I was a decent one.
Perhaps the black stocking wouldn't ruin it
but then you said too modest it would be. "What are you ,a nun?"
I wonder what is it that troubles you.
 My cheek and the disgrace
 that is burning in my thighs that you skirt.
Or the will of not parting them at your fanciful blurt.
Command and I shall cross my legs
 and un cross them at your brutal command.
I have a primeval role to woo you ?
 The Perhaps is my will per se.
 I did or well I may. To woo or not to.
But am I not to say...
 shall I not put my cards down and
 unfold the king to stoop to a queen
while the jacks are all at meaningless play.
Then you say"you don't gamble"
And I say of course I don't.
I  will not gamble my love away.
And the jacks will be dethroned.
I will take the king and a scotch to go,
"You are drunk?" Well now you know.
I wore the black dress you brought me,
NOW I won't wear the whites if you ask me to.
I don't.
WHY ? Black is not my shade and white isn't either.
I have given in once.Now I won't

Undead

Every morning I dig your grave and make an obituary with past tense in my speech. Every night I dig you out and whisper warmth in the present cold wind.
Every day I light some wood and turn some scribbled notes to ash, every night I write something good to burn such scribbled hopes to ash.
Every day I brave the chill with a laughter cutting through its fog and feign,Every night I spill some tears that make the morning mist again.
Every day I let go of the remnants of a corpse of once a life, and every night the ghost of it haunts and holds on for dear life.
Every day I jostle past the debris of the structure once, Every night I build the wall and leave a stone still un-turned.
Every night and every day , I could put either one to end, To let it perish or to cherish to break and then to never mend.
but what is it the night or the day , I could live it or take it to bed.
Though not life, this is not death in choice and thus compulsively so Undead.