A free verse poem.
Image via Wikipedia
Intentions
Below the line of demarcation
Lies a bucket of blood,
Dripping from the wounds
Of our lives.
Scars may disappear, or not,
Memories haunt us,
Lest we forget the things
We most likely regret.
The raven sits, does not sing,
On a post where troubles lie,
Granting a wish if you abide
By the curse of an evil spy.
Take away the past, you say,
That can never be done,
Scrape the marrow from the bone,
Boil it in a pot to eat a meal.
Swiftly justice swoops to nab
Karma that sweeps up the dust
From a sandstorm of mistakes
That swirls where we started to pray.
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