We scrape our dirt, store it
In a jar and wait for it, hoping
It doesn't rot.
Poems are pickles, a decay
Used to our advantage.
A breath of life added to
Something that's dying or dead.
Incense sticks in a dirty
Dark rooms that haven't felt
Touch of a broom.
Broken chairs before anyone
Could reach to the noose.
Empty roads engaging in a
Small talks instead of losing
Track of their path and
Suicide notes deciding to
Forget it all by becoming
Paper crafts.
The drowned, saved by a
Lady's mouth to mouth.
And the ants dancing in blood
To leave a script that occupies
Your boggled head.
Looking back at the abyss
When it stares at you,
Bouncing back from the pushed
Borderlines is what gives you wings.
A breath of life to what's
Dying or dead, art comes to you
Only if you live off an edge.
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