blood in my veins races in a loop
on infinity petals of a knot
a knot in muscle, a knot in tongue
feeding contortions of silence,
a caged hamster runs
to please, be pleased
now faltering for a breath
with binaries of extremes
the ends never meeting
to love, now unloved
I am a spinning spindle, beseeching
a preemption with the hand grazing
brooding over its fuzzy logic
let me hear myself say ‘what if’
I pine for a palpitation
a sigh, a smile or a shriek
identity of a throb from a tamed beat
it escapes me like that of barren lands
them who know naught of welcoming
never shall they grieve the frozen
never shall they thaw
©Written Frames, 2019
First in the series can be read here : Poetry of routine: The Crossing
