Jan 31 min read

Born to Bleed Ink

By Prabhnoor Gomra

I'm a poem that the paper can't handle,

Written in moonlit nights with scented candles,

Oblivious of the world like handwritten letters of its words,

Can't soar too high but longs to live, a scattered flock of newborn birds.

Ink runs through my veins,

Bleeding onto parchment paper.

The black seeps through and stains.

The poem imprinted on its drenched layers.

By Prabhnoor Gomra

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