Words are not Words ................................... My words sometimes come with fire I cook poems with them And extinguish their ire. Sometimes they come smeared with blood. My brain coordinates with ink To make metaphor out of them So that they do not spill uncontrollably For you to contemplate sensibly. If my words discover all those fetus Wanting to be born but snuffed out horribly By those responsible for their conception Because they didnt want them, had dejection, What power my weakling words have To make them be born after their ejection Except watching their death-before-life Powerlessly? If my words stumble upon a mass grave And discover that life is so cheap And can be stamped out mercilessly Whom will they ask who did it Who were these skeletons disposed off So peaceably? My words will be numb and will whirl Horribly. ..........................
Posted on: Tue, 29 Apr 2014 06:11:31 +0000
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