At first
it bleeds so stridently—
the ink in steady flow,
unfettering the hushed blooming pain,
extricating uncertain masked breaths.
I guess enormous blades can carve
the most imperceptible scars
but through smudged sentence edges
and uncarefully spun words,
my paper mirrors perceive
even ill-lit depths.
Then time flew too swiftly, flipping pages ahead,
past a year on the same chapter with a veiled end.
So now
it dries progressively—
the pen wilts though half-full,
declaring all senses paralyzed,
tolerating vague tomorrows.
I guess time-worn wounds can harden
though devoid of any healing
but through the lingering hand
and unornamented white leaves,
my paper mirrors behold
even hollowness. F FATIMA B. BADURIA
