A recycled tongue.

Permanently cursed,

Symmetrically cut

In the middle, on either sides,

Branches of a tree.

I shall make it personal.

Just re-attached, it retracts.

Disgust comes with a sigh

It might chew itself to death,

Unspeakable postmodernity.

I try to make it mine.

Perhaps it is because

It has no spine that

It bends, shapeless

Monstrosity, worse

Than any other liar.

At the bottom of the sea

It might have been,

it missed out on a

Romantic momentum.

It was most probably

A dried pebble in a sac

Among other dirty sins.

There is no symmetry

To the sounds. It is not

Only you that cannot

Understand it.

Its movements rebound

In the hollow of sleek

Waters. One day it will

Die, a dry web into

The ground. Its bodily

Flickers will never be

Mine. It cannot belong to….