META- PHORS

Women with dead lovers are broken flowerpots sitting on the corner of room, invisible and sad.
They move through the sainthood of 
a broken milk teeth, a martyrdom no one find saintly but common.
It is the small odyssey of
ferry man's child moving to and fro
in a rainbow river, where fishes sing.
They do delicate patchwork over
their skin at dark nights,
where there was once a broken heart.
Their eyes are rosary beads,
rubbed smooth from prayers,
holy fools rotating around new suns.
Women with dead children are
limericks, no one dare to read,
with rhyme schemes a sparrow loves.
They walk like enchanted goats
in a seashore, forgetting the lillies
in the past green pastures.
Their freckles are just like Eve's,
for mothers are same after all.
They gift each other snowballs
in the size of their fists,
the ones that once holded babies.
Children without homes search in dollhouses for a bed where
they can listen to lullabies.
In the park they hide behind trees,
because wind carries burn kisses.
They cut apples in triangles and
eat the wrong side of bread.
They are empty dustbins in the
middle of a street,
their worries taller than their smiles.
Men without mothers
look out of windows in the mornings
and find their prayer rugs ornated
with dust where a mother spider
is eaten by her children.
They assassin poets with their nails, because they couldn't find the cutter.
Drinking black coffee they wander
through films, while people look at
them like shop windows.
Girls with depression look like
vermilion fowers stuck on graves, decaying and vibrant at the same time.
They can't breathe in skies,
so they don't dream to fly.
The oceans are forbidden to them because they carry one in their lungs.
They break into poems in bathrooms,
throw strawberries like love and
when they die no one collect tributaries.
Dead kittens are like arms of a father,
sorrowful, soft and dared not to held.
They don't know who poisoned them,
and died without wanting answers.
Their cries are never loud but
like a leaf on the windowstill,
like a song from an old radio.
I am like a crucifix gone
into the wrong hands,
barely a paper holder or potato peeler
under the mattress of a joker.
I lay on my bed like a devil mask,
spray painted on Halloween,
counting and recounting
the candies denied .
Tell me why the sparrow closed its eyes when it saw me slitting my throat-
Am i that terrible?

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