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Biblical Anatomy

By Tejaswi D Shetty

Isn't it romantic how your ink stains

trace my permanent scar?

It carves a scripture.

I tiptoe through the roses.

You'll find my feet facing the wrong way altogether.

I think I could be a poet.

The bulging bees in the throat often bumble when I speak.

Or perhaps I am in love with the sound of my voice.

I'm louder when I write to you.

Every single word nibbles around,

like a baby bird learning how to fly.

A hauntingly tender quill touches the paper. My wrists sway the syllables.

Every single word requisites passion.

But ink stains fraught with verbal dust can only sustain the words of angst writers.

And I am contented.

Untroubled and delighted.

I live in that cosmos where the poets pen chaos.

They haven't felt the ray of sunshine that cures the blues of the skin.

They say the words thrown in must be an indemnity of what's left in the ocean.

So when I seek to swim a little stronger,

I drown as the currents swift the surface.

It's eccentric, how I became one of them.

Fingertips sprawl the melodies of every poet's cry.

Forthwith tracing a new secret language.

Yet here I am, still learning how to whisper in the darkness.

But darling,

isn't it romantic how we traced our stars

underneath those scars?

By Tejaswi D Shetty

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