A rescue poem.

i come to places where i can stich a notion to my entire body of chemicals.
Strange things happen here.
A women die each day/ there are ways and methods for it/

a loop of sorrow sinks like an abortion.
And a mist encircles my eyebrow, like a wide corridor collapsing.

i visit places that connects me to a numb mind.
I ask a numb air to swallow my left arm,
for it knows the bends and the geometry.

Often, I collect marbles/ potions/ circumstances that live like a vein inside me.
I fix things.
fixing like a plumber of times.
beneath the archaic tenderness of joy,
a butterfly evolves.

a blue coloured life dripping from my body
my breast,
my entire smouldered body.
i drip and collect myself all alone.
each night.
each night.
each night.

The dissection of women.

_________________________

Words and pic- MVS

 

 

 

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.

38 Comments

  1. Breathtaking; imagines melting into feelings; feelings like hurt birds on a lonely shore; “I collect marbles/ potions/ circumstances that live like a vein inside me.”
    The coup de grΓ’ce at the end: “The dissection of women”
    Your words haunt me.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. “Often, I collect marbles/ potions/ circumstances that live like a vein inside me.
    I fix things.
    fixing like a plumber of times.
    beneath the archaic tenderness of joy,
    a butterfly evolves.”this is one beautiful group of imaginary that i loved..nd other lines.which i really loved were..” I go to ppaces that connect to my numb mind” and also i collect myself all alone..πŸ‘..as always lovely.

    Liked by 2 people

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