Sunday Poem By Jagari Mukherjee

LIGHT

With thanks to Yunna Morits

The potion from the wizard's cauldron peeled off my soul. Left a scar. The soft neon firelight is now a veiled rose. There goes the crowd casting stones that touch and hurt and turn turquoise.

My ruins are ancient with an undeciphered script. Yet a moon-wash on certain nights fills a poet's soul with witchcraft longings. Light still enters my ruins. It glimmers like a star.

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