A poet’s origin

NaPoWriMo# 11 Point of origin

It began under the chalice of my mother’s yellow palm.
Point of absolute silence. Her womb carried me like lotus full of vignette scars.
There was a tingling whiff on my small eyes. I was born amidst the petals of soft kisses, soft scars.
A concave chin of mole and anxiety dripped. I had no mouth. My mouth got submerged somewhere in the lost voices. I grew later on like a cleaved peanut.
The rain entered my eye like a century of heavy screams. At times, I was golden, an arched brow of perfection.
I felt my body scattering to the noise of wind. My adulthood held my fingers.
Boys spewing an eclipse onto my face. The winds grew out of my stomach. I vomited like a twig curling and stretching to escape something.
The quiet pulse of white corona silenced my anxiety. I pondered on this reality now how to walk, how to sit, hot to twitch and ache.
An illusion of white farm often blinded me. Shook me.
I evolved like the sun swivelling the painted sky.
Murmuration of thin sheets of god like structure telling me to expand more and more. I became elastic. Sponges of famous time.

I watch those bird now, sitting in my balcony, those fuchsia music they make, it completes my broken system. That orange sky embossing my chest each day.
That open vacant air.
I watch patiently Himalayan snowflakes filling my empty cheekbones. The whirlpool of trees and the fruit they drop. It smoothens my eye for life.

A poet who stood in front of this eternity.
Ingesting walks of thousand of suns and moons.
Secured, the stretch mark of life is a beautiful thing
running through my rainbow body.

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.

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