INK

In chaos, my world collapses,

My pen drops,

A wound on my ring finger,

Betrayed …

By my lover,

An ironic wasteland is my heart,

Dumped …

Love loses its eulogy,

Fragmented…

In a puzzle chemistry,

Poets run out of verses,

Tumbled…

Face down in infamy;

Suddenly,

Out of nowhere,

Loose petals of words,

Fall in cascades,

Cover my lifeless body,

Awakened…

From the torpor

Of self imposed penalty,

Wet…

Under the mosquito net,

Stained…

My bed linen,

With ink from your pen !

Anita Bacha

Writer’s note -The first half was complete but followed a systematic writer’s ( or lover’s) block. One sentence “do not let go of my hand” was all I needed to dip the nib of my pen in the ink pot of the vast ocean of  Love and write…

 

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THE MOON 

On the onset of winter 

In the dark night of wither 

I saw the moon 

A smirk on her face 

‘Why do you smile so soon?’

I asked with a grimace 

‘Why is there a stain on your forehead?’

‘I smile behind my mask of grief ‘she said 

‘The blot on my forehead is to remind us that when we wound

A kindred human being, we bear a blemish on our face.’

Illustration/Picture/Internet