Illegal
Butterflies were jittery leaping inside my empty stomach. Harmonizing with the tummy pain I felt, the butterflies sew a piece of cloth with a rusty needle. In vain, painful, intricate----but then, beautiful. Thick garment of bright red and dark black hugged your body. And there, a black bodybag hung like your usual classic.
From afar distance, I couldn't figure out how I could see you from this dark, loathed place. God kept making ways, he kept giving signs and giving no's.
Aside my poor understanding of something great that tailor is sewing, I took a glance. Bluish gates opened and those wheels glided off the road in a dirty grace.
You're very small. A microcosm fading away. But I managed to stare for so long even in your obliviousness.
He took off the fabric in a skillful manner---slowly and steady. And I felt like it froze like a moment caught in a bottle to be sent to a faraway sea.
Sighs sum up my inner catastrophes. But you're very far away. Far enough that I cannot reach you anymore.
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YOU ARE READING
The Passionate Corpse
PoetryCorpses are gross, dirty and foul-smelling. At times, they're scary to look at. But curiousity enthralls upon something unpleasant. Amidst the ugliness, it satisfies the dark part of our soul-not meant to be human. Something about it is unnatural...
