Poetry

The abundance spills on my
torn shirt, when I was
gathering your voice.
 
The affiliated sore
begins to fester in your face―
after flying a kite.
 
It blurs, when you give
a speech, manipulating the lives
of innocent bystanders.
 
When you were heaving the numbers,
I was holding on the poems, like coins
not your paper thoughts.
 
Being blind was not becoming
a Buddha in the garden.
Suicides were increasing every day.