Ema's tender hands

Ema’s tender hands
Weary of
Creating flowers
One day
Grew barbwires
from her slender fingers

I am in a hurry

I long for the fluid escape of poetry
I am in a hurry
for death comes creeping in a premonition-
a nightmare of fallen teeth and newborn
remembered at the end of the day
forced by dark clouds of rain soaked evenings

I wake from a siesta
to feel the inevitable night
falling relentlessly
in tormenting drops of nostalgia
dispersing my antique trunk of memories

While with droplets of dried turquoise blue on its nip
my pen collapse in a slumber
at the shore of soft white expanse
dreaming to chart its course
and leave residues of blue waves