The cupboard of my abandoned selves

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•a piece of cake•

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•On words and doors•

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On most days, I feel like becoming an old photograph in a corner of my drawer, in my childhood home.

//caption//

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In the sclera of my eyes
is every person I have met
engraved the soul I have seen in them.
The world I see
with a hundred eyes
and a hundred p e r s p e c t i v e s.

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•on paper bags•

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•On emotional baggage
and flowers•

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At the peak of spring
Wildflowers bloomed and the
dark and the cold wore off like
a distant memory of a past life.
The warmth of the sun
like a hug, pushing to growth.
And for lost travellers,
the smell of sweet nectar,
like a map back home
finding their way back
walking on a thorny rose road.
The earth soaked with blood,
but the heart overjoyed.

March passes by,
leaving a fresh start
for people lost in life,
returning to their paths
returning to their homes
returning to their passions
and returning to love.

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I was love
and I was killed
in the fury of egoes
clashing from under surface
of the red ocean,
sea green on the top
with fishes and snakes floating
in the fire,
and the cool elixir.

I was love
and I was killed
in a cemetry of rising dead memories,
battling the swords of
pushed back,
deprived
and dipped into dead
passion.

I was love
and I was killed
by the eyes of evil hearts,
of whom minds were narrow
streets with rigid houses
and gutters overflowing.

-p r i y a

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