She handles words with grace and precision,
She knows how to fit them perfectly,
How to pick, How to cut,
How to stitch, What goes in what,
Any love can be bought with this currency.
Holy tones in her voice vibrate so fervently,
Churches crumble in prayer to her words,
Stories, passions, God’s own fractions,
The throat of a dragon lived in her.
The breath of the reptile ever so erupted,
She lost her taste of the flames,
Lost her gift in making words out of insanity,
For love has made her insane.
She cut my chest with scissor words,
Claimed my heart with prison bars,
Ears that bleed from her word-smithed swords,
She’s carved herself into my scars.
A Poem by Sharaf Momen