|
Mending |
The hurt of ones
heart ceases to leave
behind its scar.
This is the pitiful
truth that's the
result of our deeds.
The wound wraps
around itself like amber
that turns to black
in the dark.
People around don't
mend their ways:
They drive from left
To right.
The clueless roam for
their possessions:
the things we feel matter
only so little
to strangers.
We find dirt
between the sand, and marble
between our toes to
give relief.
The pain like ice-leafs,
cry deep within its territory:
The tears hold themselves
with faces that smile to
the Earth.
It bears the hot, cold,
luke the storm which it
embeds within its footed
print, like the amber transformed
back to purple.
The white left behind leaves
a remembrance for an occasion, whether
today or the next, where the
dices mix in search
of a place; on the ground.
copyright 2017
Rishan
Singh |
