A girl came out of the dead, 
her nails sewing roots of roses,
a gardener of the damned,
a loyal confidant of clouds 
when the world oversleeps.
Time runs barefoot, 
a shark without tooth,
that can't kill, 
but can scare even a god
who has chopped fingers.
This is when she realizes 
that her heart is resting 
under her lover's shoes, 
like the clumsy gift of a child.
Like a bold faced clown 
not afraid of limelight.
Like a dark tunnel 
ashamed of its loneliness.
Like a half ripened mango 
falling by accident.
Like a writer stuck 
in monotony of words.
Like the hair of a witch 
that clogs a fisherman's kitchen sink.
Like the cardigan 
of a refugee 
trying to find address.
Like the mouth ulcer 
of a rotten fruit in 
the garden of Eden.
Like the rusty ear lobes of
your grandparent's fridge.
Like an overcooked season, 
shaped in a burning clay stove.
Like the blood of a red chilly 
taking a holy dip in a river 
in dysfunctional utopia.
Tangled in the cart wheel 
of extraordinary insanity, 
she leaves it there, 
so that he can have a box 
to keep his brown colored shoes.
So that God will be confused 
between sinners and saints.
So that poetry can be 
written in forbidden banners.
So that a dynasty can die 
in hands of an illiterate poet.
So that a time bomb can preach 
its explanation and reasons.
So that a peeled onion can 
roll a cigarette while figting 
a midnight sugar rush.
A girl came out of the dead,
And the proof is this poem.

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