at the writhing darkness

embroiled with unheard voices

                  underneath —


my fingers around a spiked lifeline

in chopping waves

threatening to bring me

someplace I don’t know


eyes of foes

snip at me

a prisoner roaming

in vast grounds

trodden by millions

                  but understood by none


listen —

the clay-faces cry

words dripping


in all the years and all the times

my opaque soul walks under a different tree

I look up

                  night picking up

                                           the moon with its forefingers

                                           putting it in place

Author Bio: Writing gives me a scalpel-like precision to dig out otherwise buried thoughts, a stage to sound out otherwise inexpressible thoughts. Among the vastness of writing’s universe, I find poetry in particularly to be the most fitting medium for thoughts, feelings and ideas that are unusual and absurd and strange, nonetheless, that which hold so much weight and materiality. With poetry, I can be precise but indirect, my ruminations concrete but abstract. I also post (now sporadically) my admittedly mediocre writing on my Insta @written.k ; I’m still very much learning and growing as a writer, and would appreciate immensely if we could connect on there!