Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Sweta Maloo- A Poem

One odd winter night,
my wooden legs crossed an old friend;
a fiend
One I felt compelled to tail out of sight.
He was the drunkard;
I, a mere storyteller.
And the night was long,
with the moon gone.
So, words grew dispassionate.
A pointless barter indeed.
But each coil of his skin
whipped my blood mad with desire;
akin to a quagmire.
Really, it felt odd bubbling
with a yearning
that had yet to tire.
Fear, this song of the mind,
And quite alike seawater lapsing to shore –
except fiery and fiendishly fierce it was –
a thirst for new lore gripped me.
“Would my blood sizzle inside?”
“Could his ensnaring crust drizzle cinder
at the kiss of light?”
Thoughts churned words.
But the night was long,
with the moon gone.
So, I wore each sting
like some prized attire
and awaited dawn to slither by,
willing it to douse the fire.
Yet when it came, hopes grew grim –
as the lights were already dim.
My friend had died.
Eyeing those glorious golden-green scales
knifing his skin,
it, somehow, felt right
that around mine, it was roped tight.
For really,
the poison was in me.
Man, after all, was I.

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