My melancholy is a god

resting in a rusted shrine,

afraid of recognition—
it feels the gravity of its own weight.

It yearns for a siren
to sing it out of wreckage,
yet gleams in the glow
of pseudo-courage.

Its watermelon womb
kills hope without mercy,
standing alone
in the middle of the road—
trying to turn it into a finishing line.

It curls among little mango suns,
whispering, Call me. Hold me. Soften me.
But comfort is a misted hallucination.
It slips through rabbit holes
with a parentage no one remembers.

It is a song
tired of weeping
over dead reflexes—
so weary,
even love feels like winter,
where the snowball
chooses to melt and die.

It is the tea stain
ruining a perfect white tablecloth—
a patient
with shivering hands.

It conceives
a sorry existence,
because it must endure,
no matter what.

It is heaven’s seed:
a pomegranate—
bleeding,
sweet,
lost.

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