The lines taste like sweet saliva,
On the tip of the tongue,
Like monsoon humidity,
Like petrichor,
And soft soil,
Dirty hands,
And coils of
Insects,
Making their way through the sand.
Like clouds that are grey,
Droplets of condensation,
Watery confusion,
Like change.
The lines feel like a glass dome,
In which to hide the behemoth that you are,
Feel like stained glass patterns
On its translucent walls,
And the transient wisp of hope,
As iridescent rays find you,
And for a fleeting moment,
Make you beautiful again.
The lines look like rain,
Like a daring dance,
Of daunting words.
Like a film of water on your lashes,
Like a cloud when it crashes and
Water as it cradles your arms.
The lines smell like monsoon humidity,
Like soft soil,
Like petrichor,
Like newness,
Like birth.
Poetry must taste raw,
Like blood,
Like earth.
September, 2024
