Defeated fingers of a writer 
gets lovestruck when a tragedy happens.
That is if a desperate girl 
chooses a rope to die, not to play,
then a poet sings: 
Run you desperate thing, 
and put a letter on the box 
outside god's ancestral home.
Paint a part of your algal mind, 
so that I can slip a rotten apple.
That is when a heart is broken, 
all its red turning to blues,
then a poet whispers: 
Detest the taste of first kisses, 
with false promises of next summer.
Walk like a toddler so that 
I can mend nature's laws.
That is when a war rages, 
with silver spoons modified into arrows,
then a poet laughs:
Find peace in tea leaves, 
when a civilization disappears as smoke,
So that I can clip my nails 
to take care of a socialist cheek.
That is when a mother decides 
to sell her blistered footprints 
to a museum,so that she can 
buy her child's milk, a poet sneers:
Burn the birth chart of oysters 
that will open bullhead doors of 
restaurants for you,
so that I can ask monsters 
to lend their untrained spines as pen.
That is when a boy soldier 
forgets the first letter 
of his middle name,
then a poet sighs: 
The loss of a language is 
equated with preservation of
a pagan beauty,
so stumble open the cursives 
that kill my digestion.
That is when a mountain decides 
to turn people into paper cranes
suggesting the necessity of a private space, 
a poem turns vegan, and calls:
Turn yourself into a slaughterhouse, 
so that more trees can be planted
to be pulped into posters 
about the correct names of missing girls.
That is when a city's streets 
are paved with the ashes of 
forgotten dreams, so soft like a lambs hair,
then a poet weeps: 
Find solace in the echoes 
of a forgotten melody,
so that I can learn to play 
the lyre with a broken heart.
That is when a river changes 
its path while getting bathed
in a child's blood,
then a poet prays: 
Find forgiveness in the eyes 
of  braided bruises,
so that I can invite 
every ghost to a neon party.
That is when you find 
a glimmer of hope in a lover, 
who vanished like 
a rainbird's anguished cry,
a poet laments:
This fatal and harmless skin, 
you chose to call yours, 
is the possession that poisons you.
But then
You clutch your lover ,  
a little closer,
only to realise 
what a tragedy means.

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