I
sorcery

speak to me in the language of flowers-
let me do the talking.
deep inside i grow flowers-

seeds, you ask?

when i was growing up, there were fireflies,
ambushing the night
i cupped them-
swallowed them-
gave birth to the language of flowers

II
offerings

swallow hatred, rubber pellets spewing death-
an era hungry for extinction-
wear your angst like a badge of honour-

someone screams at the verge of insanity…
i have no fireflies to give you –
offerings of a strange existence aren’t of help
to you I know,i know.

i had a lake, a forest- where you could find solace once-
it burnt itself down to ashes.

but I have a peculiar gift;
take it-
you can use it for the noose around your neck-
you look endearingly-
it’s a photograph-
thousands of fireflies
ok, hundreds atleast-
you smile-

III
Salt and Water

burning eyes-
rock –
rock back and forth
let the rope go
the ceiling fan heaves-

pain knows when to let go

for a moment in Time
the room is filled with fireflies you swallowed-
a crumpled photograph lies at your side
and you live another day

(dedicated to sushant singh rajput and all who suffer in silence)

…

Dee is from Lahore, Pakistan. Loves dark nights and old trees.