PURSUANCE

I wander in search of words,

those that can translate 

my agonies and ectasies, 

like a ghost, lone and thirsty, 

looking for those that bleed, 

for my poems were all arrhythmic 

verses, inert and lacking essence.

Bereft of soul, they were carcasses 

mere flesh and clotted blood

that stinked and putrified

a while after. 

I'm done giving stillbirths. 

I've grown pale from them.

Weak, I stumble and fall, on my days

So I put on, at night, my white gown

step out, with a dry mouth

hunting for words, real and throbbing

my appetite insatiable, 

wanting to devour them all alive

hoping it could cure me

once and for all, my last refuge

in bearing a worthy baby

after all these infertile years.

I scavenge in desperation 

among piles of memories, 

relentless and unabashed

to conceive and nurture one, with

all my finest genes of imaginations 

embedded like beads on my past,

gracefully in rhymes and phrases.

An ordeal I take myself through

each night, my gown scribbled and scarred,

to hold an offspring in my hands  

flaunt her before the world,

her shining metaphors, 

her chasmic moods,

to become a mother beaming with pride 

in my final rest, my living child 

who'd carry my name forward,

liberating souls off

dense human bodies, 

like a soft bomb, a subtle revolution,

a green leaf in my torn pocket. 

(All about my wilting poetry)