Bereaved words, discarded metaphors

Chaitali Sengupta
Sometimes, a few drops of ink, 
create words,
falling in a soothing rhythm,
the ups and the downs,
in a beautiful dance,
of resisting and giving in,
of grasping and releasing,
of dissolving and merging,
of holding each thought
like the newborn drop of rain.
And, sometimes, 
the thoughts are like open wounds,
no, they have no words.
Only letters, on their way to self-destruction...
Just like a heap of promises, never kept.
I slay those, my eyes glittering with contempt.
They witness moments, I’d rather not talk about!

The bereaved words, discarded metaphors,
curve around my throat.
I do have a muted longing for them,
But for now, I swallow them down,
and tell my microscopic mind,
I’ll grab them some other day,
when I want to raise a storm in a teacup.
Today, I allow only words...
those politically correct words.

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