INSANE AMBIVALENCE

Siren in her ears
going up to the mind,
not perfectly executed crime,
sinews and sanguine sign
all over the table,
where they used to dine.

Three summers passed in infatuation,
she wanted it to be longer,
he wished poise instead.
She ratified her guilt
of killing two earthlings.
One lying down in blood-bath,
the other died in her afore.

They inquired of the other body.
she replied,"wasn't formed yet,
I killed before it could exist."

Whole time she glared at the window,
where they saw beautiful morns
and experienced thunderstorms.
It was dark that eve,
no spark in the roaring sky,
all poisoned i-v-y.

Fate took her exactly 
where she belonged,
I think it should've been prison,
not the graveyard nearby.

Who stole the missing pendent.?
Why she had marks 
of being chained for a long time.?
What was the use of fentanyl,
when she didn't have any
physical protruding pain.?

They think she did it;
but they couldn't prove it.
She think he did it;
but she couldn't prove it.
'til the day she called it out.

He was the one who did it,
but no one could prove it.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

THE LAST LESSON

Mrs. Martha settled into her wagon once again, the same journey she had made every day for thirty years—same route, same rhythm, same steadfast purpose. The fire in her heart burned as fiercely as it had on her very first morning in the classroom, though time had etched its weight upon her. Her knees, once tireless, now ached with a dull persistence; some mornings demanded a visit to the doctor instead of the blackboard. And where she once stood for hours without thought, she now scanned the room for a chair after thirty minutes, her breath shallow but her resolve unbroken. The planet had not changed. The children had not changed. Only her body whispered reminders of the years passing—yet still, she went.   Mrs. Martha never bowed to mediocrity. The world had offered her easier paths—gleaming offices, salaries that would have draped her in comfort, the quiet dignity of a life unburdened by chalk-dust and rusted blackboards. She could have taken them all. She chose this instead...
Read more

BRUISES BENEATH THE ROOF

We inhabit a world that measures itself by the clamor of its streets, yet the soft, aching sighs within its homes dissolve into shadows. It is not always the blow of a crime that wounds most deeply, but the quiet varnish of normalization that lets it linger like a stain on the soul. This is the age of women-she is at once the steady flame of the hearth and the fearless wind that builds empires. She can be the hand that earns the bread and the heart that kneads it, the unbound spirit who charts her own sky, and the sheltering mother who folds her children beneath her wings. She is everywhere; she can become anything. She owns a home, steers a business, and holds a family together, yet is still kept in the quiet shadows of the very place that gave her life. Those who once championed her independence now seek permission from others before allowing her to follow it. She is expected to be beautiful, a drop of diligence dissolved in the liquid of grace-an alchemy of charm and labor. She pa...
Read more

Pain is Personal

The abyss of this eternally enough night, Where the world swallowed an impenetrable void. Neither the sign of sun nor the spark of moon’s light Just the air humming in whispered dread and sinister glow of corpse-light . What I scream in silence, May not be heard with deaf ears but Heard and echoes in empty Cathedrals Like a hymn of shattered glass, Sung in language of wounds  whispered in a tongue of fire and thorns.  Is this chisel-stroke, unwanted sculptor Carved with stains deeper than blood, Was all liturgy of my own venom Or it wears your voice and shadow.? By whose design it pierces my ribcage, Making my mind a borrowed ghost Learning to haunt in safest of places, What once was proudly mine, Now stands in shameful harvest.?
Read more