BAPTISM OF GRIEF, INSIDE DEATH' SANCTUM

My grief is a people pleaser, 
so it opens it mouth only 
while looking at the peacock eyes of night.
My grief is a foolish radical, 
hurting itself and 
taking pride in being a carpet.
My grief is a romantic martyr,
snatching roses from butterflies 
to impress an ignorant lover.
My grief is the deer in the highway,
waiting patiently for a headlight, 
in empty promises of a heaven.
My grief is a toothless child
born under stars while pluto was dead.
My grief is an uncurled finger, 
which doesn't know 
the tiniest grace of a slippery hug..
My grief is a fish 
doing elegant back flips, 
in hope of seeing miracles every where.
My grief is a clown 
who practices rope walk 
and puts on a simple performance.
My grief is blunt knife 
which cuts me but 
can't chase a piece of butter.
My grief shows up in my door,
Abruptly,  
And asks me to follow.
It's clawmarks, the way.
The silence, so sacred.
The end, the end, the god.

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