"To Write a Poem from Inside a Poem"
In an attempt to make people feel more at home, everyone chooses a place to live for the rest of their lives. I chose poem. The next thing I was looking at were trees growing downwards with their roots in the air as if it was the way of the earth to sing its silly love song to the sky: loud and chin up. The moon is pulled by the ocean when marine creatures make love. Weapons turn into wildflowers in the hands of a troublemonger. Guillotines never seem to fall in a dictator's reign. The bullet leaves the gun but never touches a soul. Gravity works in funny ways around here. In the poem's world, every house bears a clock with hands to hold and walls with ears to listen which is to say loneliness is only a third-world language here, no one remembers the syllables anymore. Here, the heart is a 2 BHK apartment where light tap dances into every room through the ribcage's skylight. The brain is not an overworked employee that forgets where the car keys are or worse: turns into a ...
