Not to heal

Neatly tucked beneath the carefree brow,
The gleaming eyes and the sugared smile,
Is a crimson wound that breathes and gnaws,
Almost fresh, still deepening, still ramifying,
That craves the warmth of that velvet touch,
And the solace from that pristine glance;
But stop yearning...
For what you deem to be the cure
Will hurt even more than the wound.
Stop yearning...
For it is saner to believe the wound is not to heal.
Just don’t place the finger there;
Take a deep wistful breath and look askance.

This poem was published in The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 156)

End

A petrified morning,
A dehydrated bud,
A strangulated smile,
A skeleton of a tree,
A pile of ashes,
A fake flower,
A shadow of the Sun,
A dry cloud,
A whimpering hope,
A knotted mind,
A frozen heart,
An embalmed wound,
A rancid wish,
And oblivion.

This poem was first published in The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 59)

Love

Yes, give me your love.
I am ready to embrace it.
Pile on my heart that divine prize
Scrape my hands with that precious jewel.
Push me onto that bed of roses
Of petals tinier than the thorns.
Bind me with those silken threads
While I am singed like the silkworm.
Bask in that blinding sunshine
While I burn and blaze like the Sun
Before I go down exploding into my dusk
Leaving you to stare at a loveless night.

This poem was first published in The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 106)

Icicle

Remember how I was?
Like Plasticine in your hands,
All my colors molten into clay
For you to knead and play,
To shape dumb dolls and pets
And to roll frail spindly limbs,
Which you would attach
Onto the dumb torsos
And then contort
Never feeling any pain.
And then, the moment came,
When those limbs and joints gave way.
And I who was cased in them
Became water, flowed out..
But I froze before I hit the floor
Not into ice cubes to chill your drink
But into an icicle
Suspended painfully in front of you.

 

This poem was first published in The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 67)