Poetry, the lump in my throat,
The bite sized chunks I gulp,
Like the thorny night that stings
The hysteric brown earth,
Yet croaks in its own tainted lightning,
Words will find their way amid the rubble,
Relentless, beating, thumping.
Come home, to the potholes and bumps, step in the puddles of the
folds between my palm, dear words,
As my litter-laden mind squashes you,
Aborts you, again begets you.
Come, let me sip you with recycled juices and snatches of hogwash conversations.
I know you will come out some time I will least expect, in spurts,
In malignant droplets,
In the edge of my waking.