My blood is made of sapphire

that flow crystal shards

from skull to toe



Like icicles

and eyes that gaze on a subway in New York

how sharp and how cold?



Every pulse is a sting

every breath is a freeze

and my finger tips are too numb to fold



Through the mist is spring

upon the fog is fire

but sapphire is too close to gold



"It is mine, it is mine"

I turn my back to the fog

yesterday is a day old but so is today

and so is the sunrise dripping down the bay
© simran agarwal