In My Flesh

In My Flesh short poem

Photo by Daniele Zedda

Like most men in the past,
Death eludes my ample frame.
Though he strikes up
Fascinating conversations,
Helping me soar to newer
Flights of fantasy.

Sometimes he watches me
From across the table as I empty
Satches of caramelised sugar
Into wide smoking cups of coffee.

Sometimes I talk to him about
Chess and Bergman –
Looking into his deepset eyes
With all the vanity
Of comfortable boredom
And fleshy numbness.

Like most men, he finds the
Smell of flesh unsettling
And throws cheeky lines at me
About my soul.

And yet, our fingers never touch.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

1 Comment on "In My Flesh"

Notify of
avatar
Sort by:   newest | oldest
asoke kumar mitra
Member

lovely write. very deep thought indeed. style is very new.

wpDiscuz

My Questions

My Questions short poem

On wrong side of truth a prophecy burns. A conflict of your own choosing when more was less. Do you need some divine intervention in resolving human questions? The innocence of a sunflower will not blame the moon for dark

Wwii-a Poem Of My Grandfather John Walker In Wwii

Wwii a Poem Of My Grandfather John Walker In Wwii short poem

John Walker served his country in WWII It was something he felt obligated to do. In combat he risked his life Even while he was facing strife He wrote his family back at home While he was on another roam

I Am Burning My Bridges

I Am Burning My Bridges short poem

To search you I am burning my wheels. Put your hands on my shoulders for opening the book. To read the message between the words. When the time comes I want you to smear my ashes on the stones of

My Fault

My Fault short poem

Your genome was climbing down. I hate to count the steps. Feathers hurt sometimes after the end of flying. How far was the moment of dust? You were still swimming in saline water. A collective guilt will pay the price.

My Father, My World!

My Father, My World! prose poem

Who am I, without the presence of my father? Who am I, without the support of my father? Who am I, without the mercy of my father? I am nothing, without the love of my father. All that I am,