chaiNboli

A poem rests in a piece, watercolour strokes oozing out of its eyes, while the poet calls grief her birthright and pain her birth mark, getting ready for a quite blue autopsy in the sky table, offering a palette of knives to the spectators whose smile is plastic in pH lines. Just like a dead teeth rootens the whole mouth, silence like a slave ship is a poem's personal Jesus and her faith parades in pavements, squeezing a song of her clay throat only to fall into thin ears while every morning feels like a death sentence, where a woodpecker making window realize that the palace is of cards not dreams. The poem dry washes her hands inside a broken washing machine, her mouth smelling of alcoholic syrup kisses of a child abandoned in war field, searching for mother among riffles and turns into   a verb lacking future tense. No one press her to the heart, like the soil where a saint bowed asking forgiveness, but crush her like a patch poisonous courtyard where a devil was half beate...

A woman in love is a pilgrimage Gods are afraid of. She croons love songs to night jasmines and sky piercing domes, Her salvation being in memory of her brown eyed lover. A woman in love is a prison, with her lover as a king and prisoner. Curved out of red mud,  Bare to the bone,   Her mirage dreams forming a monsoon painting over the tongue of her beloved. A woman in love is a tomb no one knows about, but only herself, And that's why she wants flowers,  even though  she herself is  a flower wrapped in skin. A woman in love is a kite soaring against wind, Watching her shadows flickering over her lover's eyelids on a sunny morning. A woman in love is a jewelled dagger tied in bootlaces, a self murderer, befriending apocalypse from the moment she listened to her anemic heart. A woman in love is a dwarf star feeding fermented milk to marigolds, waiting for a missed train to bring herself home where prayers reside alone within bored walls. When her lover leave...