Thursday, June 30, 2011

This fire burns cold

I am a wasteland, a tired hand
that carves bars around my chest,
poetry into my flesh.
I design the lines that bind and cut,
the walls I fall against.

My chains weigh heavy
gilded in blue,
but are borne with broken smiles
painted over
like so many cracks in my masks.

Dry eyes can't water,
can't make love grow
out of quicksand,
with empty hands
like winter's touch.

Stone-cold heart,
you are light-years apart
from the fires that burn beside you.


©Farhana Jahan