Blisters on my palms,

Cant draw a smile on the brow.

Lips have forgotten their walk,

Weary they tread to words.

Nails etch on the skin,

Blood flows in a rhyme,

Deep scars, shallow pain,

Distracted by the wind’s chime.

A strand of hair,

Water in the eys.

A million suns take birth,

Sky follows benign.

Quiet, content within itself,

Lying is a lifeless sword.

Hidinh itf face under a cap,

Unless told, utters no word.

When shaken and asked,

Bout the moments of silence,

It stood up on the canvas,

And painted these words.

                                                                … Shiv.