• zohiii 57w

    A poet makes his living
    a devotion to the goddess
    in words and worships in
    coffee shops, picturesque
    sceneries or scornful and
    desolate corners peeping
    timidly, recording
    observations to write
    sacred scriptures,
    as offerings to her;
    a poem descends, impaling
    the paper from the sky
    of his grey eyes,
    into remarkable, breathing
    creatures but they
    metamorphose into
    wicked sins that it bears—
    cursed children that
    kill it but bring alive
    someone else.

    Somewhere in a draughty
    enclosure, the goddess
    dies— before they could
    come out of nervous
    throats of impatient hearts,
    words turn to whispers
    and are never heard;
    after the first "hello!" on
    payphones, silence
    is exchanged betwixt
    two heartbroken, dry
    souls; the serpent
    strangles the words
    before they could fill the
    miserably empty spaces;
    the goddess weeps, and
    then someone kills
    the words they felt
    worthless.

    It's a sacrifice that the
    poet has to serve for the
    deity to live and live;
    to write a poem every time,
    something goes unsaid,
    a feeling is muttered and
    murdered, and in his poem,
    the reader utters
    infinities multiple;
    he reads it till he dwells in it,
    and becomes a poem;
    it's a poet's tragedy that he
    must write until all people
    are poems and all poems
    people, and so the
    goddess breathes forever,
    and that's how Jörmungandr
    remains defused.

    ©zohiii

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    Defusing Jörmungandr