Varsha Patel

Poison’s antidote

Ash black thoughts choke me
in the harsh fiery mountainous ruins of my mind.

Jagged menacing rocks of my yesteryear quake me.
Mercilessly, they split in two, and deliver me crying,

my blood and spongy vestiges spilling. My mother’s cord threadbare,
my hands grab hold at barren air. I freefall.

The dregs of me surrender. Thy will be done.
I fall free

into cool indigo waters, a treasure of inky words I discover
that ebb my spillages and balm my burns,

surge through me and expunge me
of my ash black thoughts.

A picture of a mountain ruins
strewn with green I hold.

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