Blackhole Syndrome
A father’s flesh and look are nothing.
He is the shape of benevolence
or the lack of it.
He is love. He is hate. He is the bread,
hushed red apple-ball and leather straps
of Freud.
I have an urn of ashes. It means not even
the choking mist if I drop it on the floor.
The way one makes paper planes
if I could craft a memory spaceship
it would traverse the void albeit it must find
a blackhole.
In A Choking City
The umbrella opens up about
the sunshine severance.
Nothing mind won’t instruct
when it knows muscles won’t follow.
Today I dream about Pyro something.
It may be true as well; I feel fire
in my lungs, debris and ashes in my heart.
Rain punctures the skin of verity.
Kushal Poddar, The author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, and published across the globe.Â
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
