As the two decades swirled and collided inharmoniously before her sleepless eyes,
A seldom heard yet unambiguous voice intruded the soundless, imperturbable night.
The unimpeded, proverbial cry ceased to comply with the defined code of silence,
Piercing through the edifice, it screamed for an identity, with no temporal preference.
The empty pair of eyes impetuously wondered, how it felt to beget someone who was no one else’s but hers,
With the same crimson taint in its blood, a flawless reflection of her, albeit with no errs.
A blank slate, on which she could candidly scribble and versify her life,
That missing piece of her story, when amalgamated, everything would be described.
But anon she cognised, motherhood was not to be chosen for its own sake,
The nestling deserved to be none other than its own self, immaculate and not fake.
Someone with no predicaments, for it was to be a creation of its own,
A unique masterpiece with no proprietor; chaste,exuberant and unowned.
2 comments:
There is a U-curve like dilemma!
"With the same crimson taint in its blood..."
wow for that piece.
you do well by sticking to a form... and your words are exquisite at times...
you do good poetry!
Thank you!
Although, I must confess that personally, I do not appreciate monotony, so when I see my work getting classified (“sticking to a form”), I do realize that my wake up call is long overdue and I need to graduate from the cliché.
Your comment has served as an impetus, hopefully should come up with something fresh.
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