The day- I -age

I feel like i am retiring from the rusty chairs of mine.
this amniotic liquid evaporating slowly.
the blurred lines fading like dusk
the oil, hushing my ink.
and the unnatural baskets of dreams( the hallucinations where the mind is a myth)
i become lush and marked, thin veins drying.
stigma eating my mouth first,
and then my olive hands.
my ear often bleeds clandestine words
emancipating like a ghost,

How do i walk? how do i sleep?
These irregular modals of life sticking me to my lone windowsill.
i am a vase to my empty body now.
holding firmly, like mothers touch.
the roots stoic in the arms of brown bride.
and i hold myself
quiet and dark
dark and slow.
____________________________________

Published by

my valiant soul

A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times. Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied. My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others. Curator of Olive Skins.

18 Comments

  1. I like the play on words, how you manipulate language to have it suit your thoughts. I think you do this very well.
    “the blurred lines fading like dusk
    the oil, hushing my ink.
    and the unnatural baskets of dreams( the hallucinations where the mind is a myth)
    i become lush and marked, thin veins drying.
    stigma eating my mouth first,
    and then my olive hands.”
    Quite well, indeed.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Comment

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s