i
born of the curse
never to be ordinary
my dreams are made
of star dust and clay
my nightmares of gold
i wait till the
end
of
a
day
to
watch
it wither
and die in my hands
i let go of it
allowing it to s
l
i
p
through my fingers
and
pores
the blue butterfly
on the winter marigolds
blue
so
blue
so perfect in its aloneness
i wonder if there are any butterflies left
in this wasted world
the powdery silky waste
the dream settled
weighing me down
waking me drenched in
remembrances
of loss
has eliot stopped measuring his life in coffee spoons yet?
or faiz sahab twisted his foot
in the shackles he adorns
ghalib unties a knot
to save his verse
bazzeecha e atfaal hai dunya mere aage
hota hai shab o roz yeh hi tamaasha mere aage
and amrita sighs
longing to be loved
ordinary is loved
others endure dreams
these shadows laden with all my lovers
which one shall have me ?
none.
loss knows me too well
pain comes every night to sharpen
the edges around my bed
tucking me in with my
dreamsmynightmaresmylongingsmyloversmylonelinessknowsnoend
i would do anything to be ordinarily blessed for one day
a woman with potsandpans and potatoes to peel
with no need to own love
to be loved
to be anchored
to be to be to be
this theory about knowing oneself
it failed me again today
let the books be burnt
and memories be erased
let me be ordinary
for a day quasicinis
please
…
Dee is from Lahore, Pakistan. Loves dark nights and old trees.
RIC Journal 
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