Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Cut

As the midnight oil burns
my eyes become the torchbearers
when I brush the cobwebs
in the crooked corners
of a room
that once sieved through
conversations confabulate
in baby names and grocery lists.



Words that didn't make love

get sucked into my womb
killing the child
that died when lie's
two edged sword
pierced her.

In another world
you kiss the air
while I nip the ends
of my hair
having split ends
promises you made were
double mouthed
just like my hair
as they are cut
I begin, forward counting

from the smallest number
losses dance on the flames
of the fire, that rises from the east.

2 comments:

dfsk said...

Lovely poem to end the year! Wish you and your blog a happy new year :)

Geetika Kohli said...

I just cannot call it beautiful. Sometimes, you get this feeling that the artist too is a work of art; you imagine the craftsman himself being crafted by several invisible hands, by the chisels and tools of Time. That is how I feel upon reading what you've written. Any word I say will limit you. It would be unjust to your works. I'd only send you my best wishes. And thank you for letting me in here.