By Jabs in the heart often leave
lacerating scars; So they aver.
If age could draw a line for it
this far and no further?
My creative vein throbs at times,
blossoms with blue hope.
I covet the verdant blossom
feel it won’t give me a long rope.
To look back is not a riveting lay.
Better see one’s warts in the mirror.
Yet I do, see a long, stretched way
enmeshed in bristles of prickles.
All worth the straining of bones?
Oh! No…see the slivers in the horizon!
Read More From K.S. Subramanian:
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