Tuesday, 13 March 2012

Of An Old Hurt.

I stood; a bit too quick.

Pain lanced through.

She saw the slight tick.

A hint of worry, I knew.

The wrench leaves marks,

Though I stood braced

Biting down the spasm’s arch

Setting a square face.

She carries prophesy enough to see.

She has wirespools enough of memory.

I will not add to these even if she had wanted.

We live better for things unsaid.

By Ali.A.Naqvi

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