Friday, December 14, 2012

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla


Walking.


I move through,
the alleys of yesterday,
searching for fragmented memories.

Untasted tears,
cascade,
drowning the sighs of a hundred and one muted cries,
filling a pool full of loss.

I walk amongst,
faceless loves,
I feel a familiar blade,
tearing across wrinkling flesh,

as,

a long stifled laugh,
settles on barren ground,
it claws deep into cold soil.

I walk between,
chilled memories of bygone days,
frozen by time fossilized,

under,

a foreboding downpour,
stiletto raindrops stab
my face rips apart.

I Walk away,
from broken shards,
of a limbo lived life,
dulled by drones,
of a thousand garbled voices,

I am blinded,
by reel after reel
weeping scenes
shot in black and gray,

edited,
sliced,
roasted,

a disjointed life,
on the pyre of the years,
feeding the flames,
with coarse untasted tears.

Walking.

Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla









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