A POEM RESTS IN PIECE

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 beaten to death for speaking God's words.
While the city bird experiments the wild shriek of a gypsy violin, the poem weaves room for shortwave messages bouncing back to its pair from high orbit, in a language with a taint of acid burn as the after taste of a lover's lips who abandoned her in the midst of a valley.
And when the water skin licks her fin cheeks the poem tries to hide it's fingers in knee caps, knowing sometimes belonging is a heavy gift.
The poem just like the poet beekeeps her tears, only to wire them into the genes of narcotic tree so that it can offer their hands to people in need.
 This is why a poem rests in piece. Thus a poem rests in peace .

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