poetry

Her

I found her, clutching her knees

in the cold corner of a dark room

Her hair was all over her face, strands

holding together, unkempt,

Unlit pathways to her empty eyes

Face, as if painted red, like blood

clots on a bright face.

The mirrors in her house were crushed

to no longer reflect her face.

They tell me her appetite is growing weaker

But, Lord, did she still look beautiful

As if a thousand Sufis rang the praise of her body

Every inch of her skin was so bare as if the scars were all washed away

She was indifferent sunsets

She measured days with the moon

They tell me she still has a lot of life left in her

but she’s just tired

They fear, she might just blend with dark room

And plot destruction of the world

But they wish, someday soon she emerges out

Not fear the sun,

And pick her sword and save this undeserving world

They hope, at least, she returns to being the woman she is.

I found her, clutching her knees

in the cold corner of a dark room

She stared at me with empty eyes

I sunk on the floor next to her as she acknowledged

That I was finally home

Body and soul

heart with mind.

 

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