Some things go on paper, some know crumple before their inkbirths,
like some part of a wish, heard by someone,
to make fate a conspiracy of strangers.
Things that seep in without being ticklish, measuring
your depths with invented scale- don't go on paper-
crooked lines on father foreheads, mothers' disguised
hurt, trapped birds unclipped and their fear of flight,
their songs of gunpowder morning
and hungry animals
in 250 sq ft apartments only talking of dawns.
The paper is proud, like the sea when it knows
that you cannot guess the other end, so you
whisper darkness in comic sans and say-
some stories are better when the lantern dies,
when paper and shadows make double helices
with fragile frequencies.
~Ajay
22/3/19
YOU ARE READING
seaboyman ~ poetry
Poetry~ is that not the perfect visual image of life and death / a fish flapping on the carpet and a fish not flapping on the carpet ~
