At the windowsill

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

The eye absorbs, 
pieces of light, fragments, 
A distilled white dreams in the midday 
glowing feverishly against the retina

I took the sun home.
The tip of my finger. Scarlet. Wide red onions.
Slit like cascaded throats.
There is a castle in making. 
         A castle of dried blood.

I placed it on the windowsill.
What is a light within margins? Bound, seized, 
an uncontrollable center 
frantically swirling in breath

The pupil moves like a tunnel
suffocating its own darkness
staring at the creases of orange 
that demarcate the source of all life

The windowsill is a blushing orange now.
Warm in the aftermath of-

      I watched it       stagnate           on my window.
And explode. 

       A star is not the only thing that consumes itself.

Image and Poem © Aakriti Kuntal 13-07-2017

View original post

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s