The Body and The Ghost: A Journey
She smelled of burnt evening meals and a queer lightning
Dancing through her body. Her body had changed forms
In every birth, but remained elusive, with different degrees of acceptance.
Her body was very real, you could say, her sudden aches and fluctuations.
Sometimes, there were far too many deaths inside, then, after a while
It became painless and then, she breathed more freely,
Made love with a vengeance of passion.
She waged no holy war, yet her nerves and sinews
Were made of endless chaos, and a thin streak of quiet.
Her cauldron boiled with the aroma of cancerous dreams.
Smoking lies and quitting, drawing doodles of departed boys,
A nervous breakdown, followed by a cool dance, the words
Drift and congregate, she picks up the pen, drenched with scars,
And when it's difficult to find missing links, she fabricates.
Sonorous journeys, epics, sagas she found none, but there was the harvest
Of words, the battered body of verses. They grew exponentially
And claimed: "We are closer than your kin, thicker than your blood."
Each day, their voices were stirred up in waves, drifting upstream,
Till she hungered to free herself, burying them in the crook of her neck.
And then, when they all went away, she loved
Her dark, pensive shadow, bleeding of the great disasters of her life.
With the constant births of her sporadic ghosts,
She was back home, every time they suckled on her life form.
Then, they blended into one: alive.