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How much of a snail
Should come out of its shell
And still be safe?
How much of its chest
Be out to stay discreet?
Words like fools when welter,
Holding hearts in their palms,
They are nothing but dust
Would be trampled beneath feet.
My Sun-kissed heart,
In starlit sleepless nights,
Drank rays of Moon
Beside the bridge of words.
And its imprint
During some storms
On the wet infirm ground
Left an outline of future
Of a destitute refugee.
At sunset,
The sky drenched in blood
Drops the darkness
On the turbulent sea.
Lifeless words
Will sleep forever
As they know by now
Much of me. |
