Those broken-winged words are crying again!
I can’t tolerate these nagging sobbing sounds. I plan to shut them out.
those hissing serpentine vibrations get muffled as I close my door.
But I can still hear them outside. They all have gathered below the staircase.
I can’t even get angry with them, for I understand their
plight.
These words, they tell me their stories. The other day, one of them
was hurled against the wall along with the coffee mug
was hurled against the wall along with the coffee mug
whose stain is still like a modern art against the whitewash.
These words, they have fearful stories to narrate.
Some are terrified of the angry lover who abuses his
beloved.
Another escapes when the drunk husband throttles his wife.
Sometimes they are thrown carelessly on the doorstep
by a son who is fed
up with his old mother’s illness.
Those from the little lad who hasn't been comfortable with the neighbor-uncle's groping hand,
yet no one pays heed, sob the strongest.
The words that have come from the strangers are still
consolable,
as they understand that one can’t expect too much from
unknown people.
These words, they come to me in the middle of the night and
cry.
They don’t understand that I need sleep
to get up tomorrow,
to go to work, to smile meaninglessly.
I creak open the door to see if they are gone, and
they all climb up to my feet
Words after Words
Some like a woolen ball
Some like a wrap,
One after the other,
all those talk
and conversations,
Piles of them, hoards of them.
