By Ekta Dogra
Writhed ruins – to arise, be thieves to bottled demise —
I, so, kneeled; wreathed meself their mind – curled fingers mine
slim, slow; bobs ballad brine's
Waning ties,
Faring their mast gusty to tune mine; sprouting again
in ruins.
To my song I turned my head.
Gone, the secrecy of my air, sung
my parchments unreturned.
I sold my lyrics to free, loose tugs.
For knew, did I; knew, hear me, aye –
the cosmic vault's mercy, benign will
to part the partings, more still,
more so, still.
To myself, I return.
Has no angst, my spirit ghoulish, for it assures
Liquid aid; a cool current — tips, slips down
In a gulp or two, each
Day after the other; glistening
Footpath Giants, glorious beaut so;
rosy leafs —
I sigh.
Sleep, my eyes.
I walk back to Giants lie whence.
Ruins, they quiet sit in vigil lanterned
Of my own,
The wreathe summits succumb mine;
Rose I not as a mended epoch,
But 'twas my song sung aloft,
tune unbound,
A waltz 'tis in own, collapse resistant, unheld, upheld —
A war alit in the breath-snatching tightness
Of the muzzled peace.
Ache, I, my turn's spine.