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-
gave birth to the language of flowers
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;
you can use it for the noose around your neck-
you look endearingly-
it’s a photograph-
thousands of fireflies
ok, hundreds atleast-
Salt and Water
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.
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