You will not find poetry anywhere unless you bring some of it with you. Joseph Joubert

Tuesday, May 5, 2009


Would you believe that
those moths took their wings from me

heavy dust laden tiny skins
that flap in delight when the white arise?

those memories are sown to my skin
like the scar behind my ankle
when I fell off riding a cycle

sometimes those trinkets rattle within
in my skull, and mosses peep from the niches

silence is an extreme death metal
to my deaf years…. Painful, unbearable

I’ve filled in the cups of my palms
with prayers trickling down my fingers

who’ll hear me, the moth within
bent over a tombstone


Jena Isle said...

I like the abstract trend of this poem. It makes me interpret it serveral ways.

ColorSpot said...

Hey jena... thanks so much... probably u r the one who have honoured me with wht u said..

that is what a poet's language should intend...