Some days it’s a chipped nail
or a forgotten scar
the memory of a child I never had
the peculiar lump in the throat
that thickens with the smog
My writing is a variable matter
Semi-liquid-solid
Translucent-fragile
Its roots lie
somewhere deep inside
maybe under my lungs
from where I breathe
or in this life clock in my chest
Tic-toc, tic-toc,tic….
My heart is a kaleidoscope
It makes images
out of broken colorful memories
and then it’s a killer
Its weapon- again memories
Am I losing it?
What if I never had it?
that valued thing
called S-A-N-I-T-Y
Rigor mortis love
looking for its mortuary
Buddha and peacock feathers
and a cup of limp tea
Another day in what you call life
and I call unfinished memory.
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