They stole parts of me when thoughts met like land and sea at the horizon and I mistook them as soul. Now there are patches and holes made by hope that transformed into expectation and the parts that remain are rotting every day, leaking poetry and song, unaware that there is a right time for everything and that my generation doesn’t like radio.
He snatched a part of my soul when he took away my dream and sadness is all they saw in my eyes for years to come. Now when he has gifted me a tongue that glides, I am struggling to realise my new dream and don’t blame me if I am afraid of disasters that it brings as a company.
Sometimes I wonder if poetry that drips from the patches of my soul will grow like trees and spread its root within hearts holding them till their last breath; then I read my wordplay only to find myself written over and over again and wonder who would like to read these parts of me that hide in light because it fails to excite people in daily life.
I am searching for a needle and a thread that will tie the loose ends of my soul and though I like scars I prefer invisible stitches; it’s probably the right time heal and hope that poetry will stand by my side unaffected by the condition of my soul. The only question is, who will stitch me? will you?
The Puzzle Maker
PS: sorry for my absence