Writing

Kahlo, Mona, their gazes
silent and contained
are pictures I have on the wall to look upon

In between the picking up of pen
and a few clicks on the keyboard,
those semblance of efforts
in a few gestures made

Where no word comes out,
not even in a rush of shades,
desperate and homeless.

(Yet it is the silence that mattered,
is a form which leashed the form
to guard the form from light.)

What I would give to leave the dark.