//It's my own hands that are strangling me,
Throwing shadows everywhere while searching for a light. 
It's my own feets that are leading me to cliff, running away is futile when you are crippled//
When I say the nakedness of a river is inviting,
I mean growing myself into an old algae root where new born fishes can play hide and seek.
Or being turned into a bleached calcium stone without being questioned about the meaning of existence.
Or weaving a carpet out of my tissues for the baptism of an atheist.
Or rolling the present tense, back lit with the star glow into a soft future no one can measure and dream upon.
Or sacrificing the helpness into something that can feed the hunger of a kingfisher who is  choking in poverty.
Or fitting everything I own into the closet of a ruby throated mermaid who isn't afraid of copper laughs of poisonous snakes.
Or spinning along with the hidden currents of the water, like a reverberating cry of an old bell.
Or becoming the chill of a protagonist turning into an antagonist in a one man play.
The bitterness knocking in the tongue, dubious of to whom it  should apologise.
The eyes, a black rain, in the sheer weight of self love, choosing to be closed for ever.
When I say the river is beautiful,
I mean it is winking at me,
asking me to kneel and be brave.
Am not imitating the art
of any poet here, but trying to understand what the art is .

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