Acid, so unlike my heart.
Unguided by thought;
Nurtured by a void I know not.
If only angels would rise from birth,
If goodness was all that descended,
An infant soaked so
In putrid blood, like Him, would glow.
If laughter was always pure mirth,
Earth would be heaven.
How untrue it seems —
An angel a demon redeems.
She tears tranquility apart.
Flickering. Serpentine shifts
In face, colour, smell, mood —
Strike like lighting with her ominous hood.
Acid, lightning — they burn,
Spewing black ash in return.
Incoherence ventures to bring meaning back.
All that is —
is the ruins of my savage attack.
The ash can only be softened by tears.
Repentance washes it away.
I assure myself, I allay my fears . . .
From the flower I stay away.
For the flower that bloomed never returns.
She dies every time
The venom spews, the acid burns.
© Ritwik Banerjee
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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