If poetry was a person, it would scream my voices.
My wordly atoms would be constituted of th-rot-tling lines and mephitic scents, and my dear allegories served in those cafeterias would be spit even by the best epi-cure. It is y o u who transformed my journey to this bundle of mess, and yet, you don't regret.
You say you fill the voids of the world, n' then you empty my beautiful breaths into potholes which do not deserve layerings. I have birthed millions with agonizing moments, and you never thought of filling those spaces between my words which screamed of liberation for your own welfare. Your absurdity has no bounds.
You slayed your own kids and kin, swayed swords past their necks so cruel, tortured your own siblings till the limits exceeded, but now, I'm un--prepared to stay silent. When you can kill my surfaces in minutes, remember dear, I play my games in seconds.
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | June 05, 2021 _____________________________________________
If poetry was a person, it would cap every definition of beauty and surpass the dominant hues that belittle dusky-dawns and dwell in pseudo-supremacy.
If poetry was a person, it would climb the heels of apparent sapients and drag them to their knees. Its voice would be that of thunder carrying slogans against injustice.
If poetry was a person, it would stare in the eyes of monsters and flaunt its armed collarbones festooned with last letters of martyrs, dressed in civil and army camouflage.
If poetry was a person, it would bridge the void between silent lips, exchange words with sky and earth and let loose love to spread far and wide. Its heart would be an alloy of discreetly whispered fervours. ~ / I see the libraries walking. Probably the poetries are on mobile strike. /