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Tuesday, December 9, 2008

I snip

A pair of dead scissors
Kept on the dressing table,
Made in steel
With melamine clasps;
I pick them up
To bring near
The soft curls;
They breathe
They move with my neck
Down until they touch
My back arch;
The blades pass through
The cascades
Breaking the strands
A part gazes
And lives
And the other turns
Into a lifeless
Bunch of black fleece

What all I do
To seem Beautiful!
To the most
I snip


1 comment:

sharath krishnaswami said...

god! that was like a revelation of sorts.