Undone
Sometimes,
When I don’t know what am I feeling
and I can’t reach the depths of a sunken thought,
I find the nearest stone of a metaphor to unwind
And put Sylvia Plath on rewind.
And in the loops and swings of a broken spine
I lay in front of you:
A display of untamed hunt
and a nursery of weeds waiting to be loved…
Have your pick!
“Like unfinished novels lying on my shelf,
Like nightlamps squeaking their last flickers of light,
Like leaves turned brown way earlier than autumn,
Like a final goodbye at the airport;
where you turned back and waved — only in my imagination,
Like a witty argument — held back, only for your feelings,
Like chocolate that was only as good as a toothache,
Like sympathy shared — only until convenient,
Like sermons followed — only until practical,
Like journeys planned but buried under landslides,
Like young petals plucked for perfecting the bush…
This will be unfinished business,
This will be our story,
This will be what we want it to be…”
