• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 11
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A sharded voice – like a crack in your windowpane
Beckons your heed like traffic lights on the road
Like your nail paint chipping away unveiling your nail
Comes together your shrapnel you lost in metanoia
Your tussling funambulist hopes falter on the brink of
The stack of empty tablet-strips on your bedside table
Like the matte face of your ruby lips, like the rind of
A musty orange, like a cut-out lint-osculated sleeve of
Your old sweater, like (now soot-clad scrumpled mass)
The billet-doux you wrote to your past
Your freezing gaze like that of a lizard –
Your screeching soul like a hurt mouse –
Your sleeting cold words like ice-cream drips –
All decay into sawdust
Like a vibrant silhouette with polythene-hued backdrop
You ruminate on your edges that now sharpen
Like a high-resolution image
The haze that surrounds you now becomes a Casper-abound
Void; between the gushing shores of chaos, and the
Mesmerizing waves of order that tickle your feet,
You balance like an adept ballerina in arabesque
Like lost pieces of a jigsaw, you coalesce into beauty.