Weary of heart that never disappears,
Despair of unshed salt lake, the horrid sun
putting pity with glare, my maiden fingers
are still fighting for running, over the keypad
in the muse-filled night, gushing in a ceaseless
moan, wait for the weaving loom patterns
but work with the rest, pretend as if
it’s never there, boxes after box: piling
up in the branches of burden sack,
city breeze plays, odd ways of drawing
breath in the livelihood flesh.
“I love the way it’s stuck,” she whispers
with the white wheel, spinning in the pitch
black road, emerging in the weariness
tadpole, “What might you fear, must stay.
What you don’t say, must stick.”
He gasps for his leaf-cutter in the golden age.
Glance— flicker in the flame,
It’s gone as if it’s never there,
Slender fingers, smoothing crust,
The world’s weary, the wind’s in east,
Blowing the last hope of grain dust.
— 12th May, 2024.
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PoetryFeatured on @WattpadPoetry / 16.04.2023 ❝ sometimes we find the words, yet somewhere they find us, together we dive into the ocean, unknown to the world, unaware of the uncertainty ❞ ━━━━━━━━━━━ n e w poems are always added in the beginning. Q u...
