Bhanu Pratap

A murmur. That’s all.

A butterfly flutters it’s wings on my chest, it has weight of a thousand branches. I can feel it bubbling over, in my lungs, and on top of my lungs beats my heart. Usually they sit besides each other, but tonight my rib cage has given way, or given in.
I can hear murmurs right in the middle of myself. As if I am a town, or a party or more appropriately, a funeral.
Or maybe I am the afterwards of a funeral. A cemetery of believers. Restless underground.

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