We are flawed, beyond repair
We hold a goddess and complain how
She has a little bump of flesh on her thighs
And how the water is shallow in her heart-well.
Still we look at her virtues, the insensibilities
As mind canvases become masterpiece realities.
When the wretched heart becomes a prince.
Yet we say the meanest words
We look through the eye of love, and say
How the colors don’t match and the lipstick
Is overpowering, or complain how she has stopped
Wearing G-strings of late.
The careless tongue knows only the rot
The carefree snow in the aftermath
And the avalanches that become snowballs down sloping time.
We are only mirror-reflections, soul-worms
And heart-navigators, learning the art of living
One faulty expression at a time.
And love is the residual silence.
The lullaby of the wound. And when you wake up
You kiss and make-up, not knowing
How many cycles there are left in the love-hoop.
And our tongues are our omens.
The witchcraft of words making beautiful editions
Witch lore. And these anecdotes stay trapped
In the inner-workings of the heart.
We are only what our hearts carry in repentance.
Those little words that escape up to the larynx,
And then to the lips.
And just like the wind inside a cave, we make noises
To redeem what was lost. The whistles of the caverns
Are beautiful narrations of love.
Voices of the wild showing their range of cadences.
Caves and flutes in a perfect symbiosis of sheet music.
And in the aftermath, we are patchwork hearts
Patched beneath sheets.
We are but two instruments who played one piece of sheet music
Just to forget how to remember.