Coming home

I’ve often wondered if those absent words
or pause between these fragile lines we speak
revealed refined devotion or mystique
a place where muses meet: poetic birds
take flight with greyish breast and muted soft awe
it’s never fierce and does not burn my veins
impressions of love don’t leave blotchy stains
it’s never something hacked with sordid saw
but then I turned on beauty and could see
a raw aesthetic wounding friends and foes
a reading mind that judged and reached its lows
askew: it never blamed my lines or me
and so I went back to a placid lake pain
and I would rather greet small grace: a soft gain.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

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