Dear No one

I have no Piper’s charm, flute, or grace, but still, they trail
A mind unsettled by disturbed trysts and ménages à trios:
Poetic anti-climax – boats on withered grass, with no sail

I’m done with mourning, weeping; my song has lost its wail
Those tears like maggots have stopped their non-stop dig, skin (bone) eat, gnaw
There’s nothing to advance, so little to take, but still, they trail

I’m lost in metamorphosis; I’m breaking this jail
That’s binding me, not giving some cathartic bliss – sweet, slow awe
I’ve left my boat on sordid shores – dead matted grass, with no sail

I’m reaching for hope – light unseen; graze, touch; now, don’t pale
And reach back. Hell, find me without my forlorn, broken lines; claw
Because I’m lost in transformation, needing you, and they trail

I’m never walking – my feet scraping this bent, brown rail
– again, so fucking jaded, shooting my drink, little too raw
So piece together my sawed-off boat, stitch that colorless sail
I have no Piper’s charm, flute, but my mistakes, they trail, they trail…

Prompt: Forlorn

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

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    1. Thanks Holly. That really means a lot. I started a contact form by the way. Get in touch if you want to. I could do with an old friend’s advise, but it’s your choice.

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