Inured

Walls of moonbeams hide the silver threads of age,
crystal of pain like amber in the night glows;
she throws the stone at me, walks away without looking back –
her beautiful hair a cascade of quartz on a silted river bed.

Threads weave dreams of colour
from where the butterfly bursts forth dipping its wings.
Earth opens and I breathe beauty in the knotted river of lava
while my lacy wings get incinerated. There,

I am now a wingless insect. Still, let me tell you
I will not give my all to you.

(Process notes: Three things that I want to tell of myself – 
I am of this earth.
I breathe beauty.
I will not give my all to you.

The rest gets veiled in images.)

We Write Poems

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6 thoughts on “Inured

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