Daily Journal

Epiphany about a Butterfly

You poem on wings, your flight is a delicacy to savor. Your sweet petals are a honey in ecstasy. You poetic blossom, you darling of nature, you lullaby of music, you divine angel, you muse of passion, you give me so much hope to live another day. You are a painting in adornment.

Notes upon an imaginary book

The book has traveled to a few countries, like Malaysia, Singapore, Hong Kong and Indonesia. The book has become a living poem of hope. The book is infatuated with sensual pleasures of love. The book has fathomed the poetry of the bed. The book celebrates the existence of life. The book has borne angst with stoic fortitude. The book is covered with Epicurean flesh. The book is a soul of love, a song of praise. The book is a seed planted on fertile ground. The book is an etching of prose. The book is a tree of promise. The book is a song of promise. The book is a meditation of life’s experiences. The book is a carnival of prose. The book is a metaphor of sensuality. The book is time experienced in inner consciousness. The book is an orgasm of a green harvest. The book is Arabian nights spinning yarn. The book is an awareness of passion. The book craves for sensual delight. The book had been rejected and wounded many times. The book is a season of love. The book is the Karma of choice. The book is an eclectic passion of music. The book is a Utopia of the sacred feminine. The book is an archetype of art. The stanzas of the book are unending labyrinths. The book is an enigma of time. The book loves to live a life of luck, risk, and chance. The book is an eloquent summary of life. The book is a never-ending passion. The book is prone to the love of fate. The book is a karma of incision. The book is a circumcised phallus. The book has an  eager thirst for love and knowledge. The book is the preciousness of being. The book is a quixotic self. The book is always in a search for love and meaning. The book has to become a beautiful soul. The book loves to read minds and libraries. The book is a trumpet of joy. The book is an elixir of happiness. The book is patient, loving and kind. The book keeps no record of wrongs. The book is the meat of poetry. The book is a beatnik rhapsody. The book is a Bohemian Quixote. The book has volumes of history to tell. The book is not bothered about name, nationality and religion. The book has deep scars running in the heart. The book has wings for flight. The book is a rhythm of words. The book is a stoic loner. The book is a cheerful Epicurean.    

Published by Anand Bose

I am a published author, a poet, novelist, and philosopher. I consider myself to be a disgruntled Hellenic Philistine, an existential nihilist, and a postmodern deconstructionist. I ontologize religions and I consider myself to be a gentile Jew and an Apologetic Christian

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