chaiNboli

 My pain can't be measured Within the space between your Thumb and index fingers . Your embrace is a Warm scented grave , Where lemon trees have Monkey eyed children Climbing and singing. You feed them your wasted tea, Illuminate them to a yellow Found only in sea. I salivate on the Solitude you enjoy , Knitting my loneliness Into the wing of an eagle. You wrap blanket over baby wipes, Feed tulips a fat spoon of honey, And makes  the sky carry Two small black moons. You call me a knife, Perfectly knowing am only good enough to cut  ribbons and butter, Not throats and hearts. You murder my marine life. You scatter me like seeds Over the rocks of a beach, And tell me to grow. You guide the roots: But am a desert.

  If I walk to tides Will it be a comfort ? You look at me Like you know my darkness. Like you know that am a singer of a forgotten empire. While I am the ruination, Not the song . I am a soiled chest Where birds sit to enjoy a nap. And then fly away, Criticising the lack of warmth. Am a stinking quilt, defending the theory of rain Only to be forgotten at the sight of a sun ray . So If I walk into the tides, Call it homecoming. Not Madness.