Monday, November 1, 2010


I paint my lungs black
in dark comedy,
No consequences in my eye.
Teeth and bells echo and
die before they reach the pulpit,
Cracked with a million lies,
heavy sighs;
They wax and wane,
half moons meeting in a broken sky.
My wings clipped and fell down,
down mid-flight
by great shears in the twilight.
I never saw them behind me.
They were never really there.
Only dreams my feet dared,
dragging roots through dirt
caked in pavement,
a lightening-maze,
picture-mirror of the broken sky.
The only clouds I walk on
are dust.
The devils tug at my toes and curl
their sharp tails around them.
Little by little I crumble and slip
like sand into the quick.
Those phantom wings are still bent where they were tossed,
And I keep reaching,
I keep crawling
to all that I have lost.


© Farhana Jahan

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