a story turned into a poetry
A story turned to poetry
Like spiders they weave a web. The incidents.
The spring on your garden and the girl who
Lives on selling flesh are meeting somewhere
At some point, some place. So, You never know
That you will meet her at this house of death.
The morgue, you in search of body, she too.
You collect it for college. She for grief.
A cliché and a frozen sun. a hall
And a conversation, a twinkle unknown,
And runaway to a road less traveled
Till you end up at your garden with spring.
She smiles and you blast with laughter
Yonder a small spider weaving its web…