as the night furrows the deep-entrenched skepticism
i carry within and out, like an extra piece of clothing
(on my nudity that does not embarrass me anymore),
i try to anchor myself to the moon — my mother, my
sister, my friend in insanity, my trusted comrade of
a bloodless birthright (rite)—& play with the strings
of a star-invisible sky, little-by-little, a tune attunes
itself to my grief, my being heavier as if the mass of
a black sun, and i put my mind to lines and words,
the gaps between my bones and silent sobs, rising in
the thought of my own betrayed blessings, healing
there on for an elemental recovery, imbued in an orb-
like feature, surrounding me, and i wait for things to
turn themselves right, to fulfill another night its end
of destiny, the despondency, the relief, the lonesome
levity, the tree-memory, the earth-bound-eventuality.
© Anmol Arora 2018
Image source (Night city by Svetlana Tikhonova)
For With Real Toads’ The Places That Heal Us — it is not a place but a moment, a juncture where time meets the customary requirement/need — a display of emotion for healing, for keeping on
Also to be linked with the Poetry Pantry at PU
HA's Place 