There are actually seven thousand metaphors for everything in this world,
to the god included,
according to poets who wear words as amulets, a symbolic protection.
Like,
The softness of breaking of a heart in love
Like,
The softness of breaking of a heart in love
is same as the breath of a skelton.
Or same as the free fall of a satellite, hicupping old love poems, ignoring the disappointment of scientists with glass eyes.
Or the sinking of a teeth into a strawberry flavored chewing gum, not at all concerned about the expiry date.
Or to hold on to the claws that look like beautiful hands of a Greek god.
Or to strip out of happy memories in public and to wash the clothes in private.
Or to attach an extra elbow to your throat inorder to silence the anger and helplessness mixed in an inappropriate proportion.
Or it is parallel train where your face is reflected on the glass window, and for a minute you think of the beauty it holds.
Or it is firing into thin air, realizing that air is the best target that can be offered to a blind man.
Remember, all these can't be found in a dictionary bound by animal skin,
Or same as the free fall of a satellite, hicupping old love poems, ignoring the disappointment of scientists with glass eyes.
Or the sinking of a teeth into a strawberry flavored chewing gum, not at all concerned about the expiry date.
Or to hold on to the claws that look like beautiful hands of a Greek god.
Or to strip out of happy memories in public and to wash the clothes in private.
Or to attach an extra elbow to your throat inorder to silence the anger and helplessness mixed in an inappropriate proportion.
Or it is parallel train where your face is reflected on the glass window, and for a minute you think of the beauty it holds.
Or it is firing into thin air, realizing that air is the best target that can be offered to a blind man.
Remember, all these can't be found in a dictionary bound by animal skin,
but only in the false memory of a poet,
when the spirits of a mock heaven flew to them like a stinging bee.
In calm misery they will write counter texts that are actually plagiarised, like the scratching of sand in the throat when we are thirsty.
Words, like the luke warm touch over the head of a dead baby, waiting for a coffin, not a warm swing.
Like the memory of first kiss of your lover, corrupted in the hands of time.
Like a pair of goldfish in a glass bowl: pretty, mysterious and caged.
Like the liquid hiss of rain they will point out that a knife can actually measure the depth of a book, not only that of flesh,
And will instruct that, the next time you see a girl holding a blade, ask her which book she is going to read, not what is the colour of her blood.
In calm misery they will write counter texts that are actually plagiarised, like the scratching of sand in the throat when we are thirsty.
Words, like the luke warm touch over the head of a dead baby, waiting for a coffin, not a warm swing.
Like the memory of first kiss of your lover, corrupted in the hands of time.
Like a pair of goldfish in a glass bowl: pretty, mysterious and caged.
Like the liquid hiss of rain they will point out that a knife can actually measure the depth of a book, not only that of flesh,
And will instruct that, the next time you see a girl holding a blade, ask her which book she is going to read, not what is the colour of her blood.
They are like the quietness of playing dead , not actual death,
Like the pulpy cruelty of banishment rather than humiliation of living.
(ofcourse they have metaphors for themselves).
And may be tomorrow, they will add one more metaphor to everything they put their eyes on, and then will say that,
there are seven thousand and one metaphors to everything in this world, the god included.
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