A KNIFE IN WATER

The knife swimming in water, 
gleaming eyes on the bath tub.
The bee's kiss stinks,
in other words the love hurts-
this is out of context,
like the spring rain in a monsoon night.
But if you look closely,
you can see what I mean,
and then you will know
why I call
the knife a random bee.
Red blushes, call it love
for the convenience,
but you and me know the truth, which doesn't matter anyway.
Or call it a new van gogh in making, and bubble wrap it in water,
a new genre,
a new creator (destroyer).
Or be excited to see the stories leaking out of the parallel windows, after gargling enough salt water to erase the cough symptoms.
Or may be just  call it art.
The knife in the water,
a proud parent after doing what it was assigned to.
Numbness marinate memories in a such a way that  micoscopes fail to identify its atoms correctly.
So, spin it like a telephone wire in the hands of a newly wed, asking sour words to get out of their house only after putting so much makeup.
Or flirt with it, like a stranger who offered to call you a cab, but
only if you go with him to his place.
Or worship it with severe prayers, in a madness of witch tongues 
passed by generations.
Or simply call it a god.
A knife in water, out of closed drawers, an angel in disguise.
Only to be sealed as a weapon, rather than being called a helper.
A prophet who found a song inside sagged skins.
The presence that made an absence worth.

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