Poetry

You were sitting on a honeycomb 
I wanted a life 
without stink or stain. 
Intently staring at every celebration 
listening to every sound, 
and warding off the hissing reptiles 
near my ladder. 
 
Nature, I do not want to fight with. 
Grief brings psoriasis, 
the eternal itch and restlessness. 
I scream at every red patch, 
my unreadable pain forgets the date. 
 
Mutism was not the answer 
to protect the purity of tongue. 
Silence was not a golden word. 
Without becoming hoarse 
one can shout to tell the dimensions.