Tuesday, 24 July 2012

To write

She tells me to write
As if words emanate from
My old heart, pumping limply
Verses in the veins
As if I flick my wrists
And the ink
Of blood pours into fingertips
As if I can orchestrate the colors
That burst at their origin
A blinding symphony
Of memories that broke the ice
And swam in oceans beyond me
As if the anguish of limbs tearing
At the eyes due to some rash inaccuracy
And childish queries, suspicion and agony 
Left in my incompetent hands
Was nothing short of cacophony
As if I could grab the sunlight and the moonlight
The night and the day and all that lies
In limbo in between
Of hesitant affection and imprudent revulsion
And the smiles and the tears
And the real and the make believe
And become the scribe of history
As if I could take words
That linger uncomfortably, in midair
The dreams that grow beneath our pillows
And take the wisdom
From foresight and hindsight
Capturing the essence of perfection scrawled
On narrow ruled lined paper
Oh, she asks me to write
As if I ever could

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