The Last Station Poem by Insha Muzafar
The Last Station
this must be the
last station
night rubs her pebbled palms
with needles of rain
this must be
the lair of disguises
for some eyes
outlive death like sadness
nowhere
is the disbelief in your non existence
and faith in contingency of this axiom
whatever intellect surmises
dissolves in scent of recurring seasons
and now that
I am here
sitting on cold stump of moon
beauty
lies like a torn banner
goading stiff tongue of silence
to utter vowels of derision
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4/23/2024 9:11:52 PM # 1.0.0.1119
My dear, in the perennial heat of this city, there exist no needles of rain to bring me some comfort. Only your absence to wring my eyes dry...it rains on my cheeks when I think of you.