I can hear the sound of my creaking bones
Like in the rhythm with a wooden carriage –
Loaded with burden of unfinished scripts –
I wonder how my instinct has changed in last few years,
The seeds that I gladly allowed you to plow inside me
Were meant to grow into the trees to timber to paper
On which I could’ve engraved the chronicles of our divine love
To turn them into the books with golden coated covers
That could’ve made us immortals
Forever beating with written words
Living in the hearts of people
Those read them.
Just like we don’t choose who we fall in love with
We, as well, can not decide who should break our hearts
With my altered attitude I know now,
That to get rid off this unbearable torment
That is tumbling like wasted scrap in my brain
I have to write down everything,
Even if it does not make sense
I’ll have to do it anyway to set myself free.
And to make sure
No one gets infected by the bitterness
That it would inject into the words
And make the pages as sharp as blades, infused with venom
I would burn them all
Only if it’ll be the conclusion.
What if the smoke then pollutes the air and ash – the soil?
What if it unleashes the toxic fertility?
Contaminates the seeds to grow onto the trees to timber to paper?
Then the words would bring pain,
Pages would carry blood stains and
The books would wear human remains.
I should rather drag this carriage of unfinished scripts
The way I have been doing thus far
“Contained and Leashed”
And toss it into the grave
Written for Photo Challenge#5 ‘Paper Train’