A poem as a coffin
Stepping out of the womb
Wearing serenity and
A weaving of smoke
With a vapour trail in the empty air
He writes a love letter to the angels living in his software
But
Do they know, how many times his heart was crushed like a glass slippers?
He was once told psychopath
But,
Do they know, he was a sentimental person?
He served trauma dumplings for dinner at his parents' house
And often murmured
We are children of empty sorrow and lost ocean.
When the world goes to sleep
He crawled in his spiderweb of thoughts
Now his grief tastes like his mother's tears.
How much space is required between endings and could save a piece from disaster?
He strangled himself and wrote that
Dear suicide, I came close to you
He had a list of nice things -
"Coffee, cardigans, cinnamon and conversation"
Maybe his soul is tired,
Craving crisp air for his lungs
As acquainted with darkening nights,
Bitter gusts and sullen skies
Hands that know the weight of goodbye
Often drunk syrup from well of tears
And swallowed words like a poem that kept locked away
His thoughts were absurdly incomprehensible
"Was he a constellation of scars?
Or
A compilation of half written poetry?"
Copyright © Leena Ishrot | Year Posted 2024
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