Thursday, July 22, 2010

My Fences

A battered soul erects fences
around itself
to guard its still pulsating wounds
from eyes that pry for its fragility;
from lips that speak of plastic barbie cars and real-life soap operas
from a tongue that derides people’s most minute gaffes ;
and from a heart under the illusion of a peach-colored veil.

Sometimes, a soul dies too many a times
before it bolts out
of a slumber that has just been unconscious
self-flagellation.

When that soul wakes up,
it will know that the monster may not be under its bed
that the eyes will squint at the not-too-brittle fences;
that the lips will continue to utter the same litany but now with hints of suspicion
that the tongue will lick away the indelible stain and finds out it can’t;
and that the heart will show shreds of carmine slabs of odium.

Sometimes, when a soul dies,
it does not become a ghost, but it becomes more alive.
Those that prey on it
will forever hunger for its
nondescript spice.

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