The First Blood
You will not realise
the first born, a river
with two blind ends,
spreads like a lake unless
you fly high and see
the body of truth with the drone-eyes.
He opens the door for the house.
Others have so many chores.
He grins, welcomes the folks visiting
and drips his shoulders when
winter ebbs, and the gadabouts
become only the feathers they leave.
He is all our mistakes while fishing
for truths. Beneath his rippling skin
lies desires died and secrets jettisoned.
At night he gurgles, “In me
my father sleeps with a stone chained
to his neck.” You shiver.
A swirl of fireflies ribbons
the gift of darkness.
You will not realise
the first born, a river
with two blind ends,
spreads like a lake unless
you fly high and see
the body of truth with the drone-eyes.
You Know These Are Questionable Truths
I told my friend Amit,
I forget what I write.
Once a reader queried
why I wrote some line
and I vivisected like a critic, 0.
That night we strolled into a fort
for a drink with a stranger
who would declare
a no-man’s land between us,
shoot-at-sight later.
Did we? Perhaps I fake my life,
live the lies, forget
the creation and believe tales as truths.
The author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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