Full stop


My words roll as if from a strange peak
minus the tangles of clumsy feet
and tumble down its slopes
like an angry stream
like soiled bed sheets
from unventilated nights
flouncing around in a soapy machine
Should I heap them into bonfires
or thrash them with sunlight
so that they no longer blurt out truths
or trespass upon nonchalant, cud-chewing days
leaving their dank postscripts
Where do I come to a full stop?
©Reena Prasad 31st dec 2012

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