Legs crossed, she thought.
Many words for a story.
She scribbled it down to not forget.
She wore no gloves of vocabulary,
And no mask to the odour of truth.
Using a scalpel, she stitched with words;
The thread slowly inserted into the fabric skin.
Slowly, wounds of drought
Bound to thaw,
And only the birthmark of scar remains.
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Author:
Youthlines (
Offline) - Published: May 25th, 2024 14:37
- Comment from author about the poem: "A writer's words are a surgical tool, cutting through the fabric of reality to heal and transform."
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: Qurrathul Ain
Offline)
Comments1
Poetry is a dagger that tears at the soul .
It surely is
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