• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 11
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The peel will come off easily
Without needing to be coaxed into lucidity;
The layers will reveal themselves
Under gentle pressure:
A bit too much and the sores ooze.
The right words will arrive,
They're just round the corner,
Something tells you,
When you suddenly wake up
At two in the morning, slightly dripping
With mid-monsoon sweat:
A sultry interlude between two wet spells;
The right words are just round the corner you think,
Quite like the rains that will fall again
After their brief hiatus;
May be silently or in a noisy cascade.
Clumped cells of some unborn song
Lay knotted in the pit of your gut
Or crumpled under the bedstead,
Searching for a body to embalm.
Shapes have started crowding
The ghost-town of your thoughts
Waiting to reclaim the lost space
Before turning into balls of carbon
As all things born are meant to be:
Will they jump out of the closet
To haunt you in the dead of the night
Or will you exorcise them with the right word,
Just round the corner?