Poetry could be broken glass pieces
They hide in the places that you least expect
And cut your sole and soul deeply and sharply.
An inviting valley down there
A limitless sky up there
The wind that tells you unheard stories;
Everything would end with the sudden
Appearance of that piece of glass.
You rush to the nearest stream
And see the stream of blood
Like something that you never knew that you had
Making ink like patterns in the flowing water.
And you feel the severe tinge of water
Only to remind you of all those moments
When you had been cut by poetry.
Each time you cut by poetry
You become a wounded god.
The cut looks sleek, neat and planned
Like a line on a Fontana’s painting
As if the sky has just made love with a razor blade.
Flowing water takes away the stain
Leaving the cut smart like a revelation.
With a poetic cut world is not ripped apart
But many get connected
By that single moment of fate.
Whose bottle it was and who had broken it
How did that piece travelled all the way
To the sylvan heights that you stand
And waited all those years
Like a devotee hardened by penance
Determined to cut your skin
And taste your flesh and blood.
Destines converge in a moment of cut
And none could stop shards to strut
They stay like poetry waiting by the river side.