Kaleidoscopic

What is poetry but the art you make out of your pain, our pain, their pain, its pain. You move mountains to Jupiter, you pull out a treehouse from a broken leaf and hide it beneath the sea, you trap a mermaid in an aquarium, you scoop out a wine flavoured cheese from the eyes of demons, you pour the sand from the timer on the roulette wheel and draw a snoozing hen on it. You do the done, you do the undone, you undo the done. A rotational metaphor in the axis of your quill becomes a revolution for the child who could not protest against the infiltration of her safety because she was too young to understand what fight or flight was and therefore she froze that leap year, because the farmer who jumps into death from a tower of debts was denied the very fruits he had sown with his blood and sweat, because the dancer who was a natural is an engineer in a multinational company, because water is drowning in thirst and pollution is not even one third bothered, because the unsung volunteer air is in the third stage of lung cancer, because justice is drugged by law and generations are waiting for potholes to be repaired and gaps to be bridged in the theory of trials, because even if all the five senses are on a strike the sixth one that is humanity is a soldier expected to be on duty with integrity.

©songbriti