The Manuscript

By Snehasree Senthilkumar

a poet’s greatest muse remains her own brokenness, but ruminating a tragedy is a precarious risk

toying at the brink of a magnum opus, the quill pauses hesitantly on the tattered manuscript

afraid that her elegies would resurrect the skeletons waiting in a buried closet, her initials carved inside their crescent moon ribs

a lifetime cursed in bargaining with the black dog only to be forced to swear her silence, hanging like lead upon her soul and lips

Time holds it’s breathe as the Creator looks within, and pitch black ink blots the paper like a full eclipse

you, Reader, think you know the whole story, but you never thought to ask her about the pages that were ripped

By Snehasree Senthilkumar