a poem by Murty N S

Flowing through the inky darkness
snugly between the ridges of the tongue
and grating the page with its tip
is my poem.
When the chillness of the tragedy
travels upstream and clogs
I run my sharp reason
through the equivocal nib.
My unwet litmus heart stays blue
as it has only been drenched in
a simulated Screen-rain.