Poetry

Across the warfield

Across the warfield,
there is a garden-
where paper-flowers breathe life,
and grow into hearts.

Across the warfield,
words inked on letters
come to life when lit on fire-
the ashes mix with blood
to form scriptures.

Across the warfield,
there’s a mountain;
where nothing but feet
is allowed, nothing
but broken hearts sing.

Across the warfield,
there’s a land of memories,
on the gateway hangs a dreamcatcher,
blue but reeks of my stale blood;
it fails, fails beyond failure,
to keep away the nightmares-

but across the warfield,
the trumpet now struggles to scream
when we step on the barriers
with our naked hearts-
and we weave out of threads
from our soul, a nest,
that cages our love-
lest we forget our love,
in the warfield.

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