The Hurt in Me

Innocence, being my muse,
Grabbed my hands and bid me
To write of poems resonating of love,
Vibrant and true, held tight in a bond
Which none could break, since, willed
It is, by the powers which may be called
As Existence!

But then, life, mocking me with its
Truth, tore up my poems and threw
Them in the thrash, while painting for me
A canvas of what love is really about in
A world which constantly makes one feel
Like one is on board a ship, lost in a raging sea!

Hurt, I could do nothing else that try
To run after the innocence I lost,
And once I found it, I nursed it, as I did
With my teddy when I was a child,
And then, I tucked it in bed, while comforting it
With more poetry, even if its essence was now
Seeping with vines, poisonous and toxic!

After all, the hurt that we carry shall be with us
Only as long as we shall inhabit mortal bodies,
Deserving thus the fuss that we make over it,
Since, someday, we shall be made of another kind,
Somewhere in a world, hidden to our human gaze!

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