The accusing grip of his words
wrings every neuron, every chord
in my brain so tight, it's a wreck.
The pain moves
through my neck,
to my shoulders, pours over my spine
knocks the burning lamp in the shrine
to drip down like
boiling thick black oil;
it's funny how it fills eternal voids.
Some even divert to my forehead,
making it even harder to forget;
welling my eyes and pouring down
like a melted golden crown
in borrowed robes of tears
cold, soft but fierce
burning my eyes to a bloody-red
blotting all my tomorrows ahead.
The words are
already carved so deep
in the skin of mind, it moans, it weeps
the oozing oil is a drying-up creek
the voice in my head is about to sleep
I sit down by the keys on a board
to hum the lullaby word by word.
-Uththara-
