the provenance of being

was i cradled by the gentle waves
of an ocean with its tricks&trinkets,
deep&dying, sleeping&waking, with
every jolt of consciousness?

did i begin at the edge of a blunt knife,
bloodied — bringing to closure&stitch,
a body, through piercing and cutting
what had to be the (w)hole of it?

was i harvested from a ripened sky,
or was it my comeuppance to fall far
from (over-done, rotten) the tree
of my pithy birth, like silent seeds?

perhaps, in truth, i was come upon
by the silver arrow of a moon or
a minuscule sun, robbed of mysteries
and inundations of a holy beginning,
thus rendered wor(l)d-less, writhing
in an unresolved frequency of life.

.
© Anmol Arora

Inspired by the challenge for Day Eleven at NaPoWriMo

Day 11
(Inter)National Poetry Month

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