shackled, in the bitter breaths of a bleeding past


as she descended down the striped
metal steps so swinging
up and down like a hung standby ladder
by her lightweight steps swollen above
with heavyheartedness,
the terrace free airs thinned
to almost nonexistence
though slow-swayed copious
of still Moringa canopies, choking
her with such unadulterated
crocinous bitterness


unlike the instantly flashing
Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s words:
” It was inevitable: the scent of bitter
almonds always reminded him
of the fate of unrequited love.”
these oleiferous leafiness
scratched afresh
past hypocrisies
and loaded vengeance
that backstabbed,
all in the name of love

But then again
his words that dug in
gripped befitting:
“…time was not passing…it was turning
in a circle…”,
when her caged birdheart
struggled frequent
in the clutches
of past episodes
that stuck as prolonged
feverish tonguebuds
neither burnt out nor high
but floated as persistent
unweeded thorny stubs
seeded deep down
the windpipe until beatenup
lungs shrunk, cornered
in disarrayed clumpy mess


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