This is the second time this year,
That I have almost built my grave,
A blood bath,
Of flowers and my hope,
All laid upon soil,
An amalgamation of colour,
The death of me,
In art form,
My eyes have not run dry in over 15 years
The faucet runs,
Forms the 5 rivers of Punjab,
Purges the grief of all our people through me,
It cannot be that these tears all belong to me?
Surely I cannot have bled for them?
A Medium between this world and the spirit world,
Am I supposed to have come to this life in this body?
This form does not fit me,
It seems every few months my Spirit wishes to escape,
To rest,
But the Human in me cannot put knife to skin,
The exhaustion is crippling,
My skin has cried out all the colour,
My eyes have emptied,
The Night sky longs for me,
Its arms reach out,
Even then my breath is half empty.
People save me,
Over and Over.
What happens when they are gone?