Sunday, March 18, 2012

Returning Home to Mother

Television-light draws crazy-busy lines
Enigma white corner quiet lengthened
An antique vase once perfect
Porcelain face now perfected
In splits left by knocks and falls
Straining against changing winds
That now charge through black-hole
Window of this card-house you
Pretend not to see father and I
In but somehow hold it all
Together in your breath.

P.S.: Now, this is one poem I am glad to have written.

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