The fairy lights stay up and the snow never settles
and outside of these little chasm of miracles, there towers unabridged wonder
more than one requires to understand
of the cold hearth brimmed with unfulfilled tribalisms.
Desire, they say, that which settles in our hearts and warns us
of grey mornings, of sunflower deaths
of delectation of having shed real, unforgiven tears
hot flashes running down charred skin, moments bundled up that have no reality to seek refuse in
desire, they say, is bland in moderation.
Despite the shroud of a life ordained for extinct lives, I can peek from the window and forlornly gaze
(but nothing dead regains appetite)
carry an allegorical torch, in vain. For,
I am not that little girl anymore. She lives, precariously
in a place no letters can be telegraphed. An outworn existence that has left marks nor on paper neither in prestige,
has no receipts of simply have been.
She lives, now, in a place that only remains to ebb
at the blunt corners of my faux du cerveau. To remind me of innocence baked in blood,
faded in the mercy of a shower head. There is an over-the-mill stubborn sofa, in my childhood home
There sleeps a snare too, expectant.
Almost of me, he has clutches as far as my breath when it hitches today
my sworn enemy bares his fists and signs his name as memory.
And I, bootless, in this moment, belong a speck more to him. He takes and he takes, and he takes
until there is left naught of evocations
until he leaves too.
End.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
My name is Humaira. I study medicine and write poetry sometimes. My username on Instagram and WordPress is trifectaofloss.
If you would like to have your work published in The Poetry Bar send your poem, a few words about yourself and the link to your blog and Instagram account to the e-mail poetrybar1@gmail.com