The art of grief

 

and all my body is a temple
a temple or a place where i dedicate my sins to bloom into petals.
A hung white cotton thread that stitches the lip,
a mouth so corrosive,
eyes tired of nothingness.
The abstract silence sits upon my chest rummaging through my body.
I feel nothing,
nothing like a bedroom door,
quiet and hysterical.
This is the motion of mundane surreptitious talks, i do.
Do not comprehend more.
I write because of loneliness, tonight
damp torquoise paths
because of uncalld sadness, grinning at my own pain.
i think of myself as a silver figment of broken imagination
cluttered jawlines/ defining rotten choir of vacant sun.

the lips sequines on the pillow to cry further
about the hurt on the knee, circling the entire room of light.
my presence paints a dark star on th e night, tonight
a bloody dark spot.
What shall happen to me next?

The hole that gullets its teeth, will you see me there?

12 thoughts on “The art of grief

      1. Oh is it …

        Sharifon ki iss duniyaa mein ab hum ..Kahan..Jaaye …Khuda bhi unka ka…Kaise nayin duniya basayen…

        I wish I could be the part of your decent world …

        Liked by 2 people

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