By Anaya Mukherjee
with my anchor and roots i am trapped
but with freedom comes fragility and a faith too frail
my skin will detach and flap, my
skeleton is a life-mocking wind chime—
a slave to the gale.
the angels will spasm
with wings that steadily taint themselves
the feared grey of age
convulsing in the road centre
jammed in the asphalt, and nobody is
stopping to listen to cries from those
that are soon doomed to die.
and throughout it all the pavement is
dizzied as i trod
over it’s swallowed water-
this ground glitters with bitter tears of the grown
who let a larger shadow bind them about a shallow life
here is the world, and it’s parts that i dart across,
but eventually i slow and i still at the chasing thoughts
all paths are traps or attacks
one must not think, or
that one will
snap.