The Cyst

If I could poke the yolk

of a fried egg,

or sprinkle a pinch of salt

around the albumen,

I would tell him, my skin tastes salty.

Instead, I handed myself to the body,

thick, sticky mucus marks my newfound respect

for two elastic bags

they fondly call lungs

I ask you finally,

will you help me leave my DNA in the world

before they call it a deed


Charred trees stand still

The baggage is too strong

With the smoke drifting over the paddock,

carbon tunes in to a beautiful song

A barren foothold:

the mud-covered carcass of a leaf

The shrine of a stem

Staying close to the life underneath   

2 poems by Fizza Abbas

Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her works have been published on quite a few platforms including Poetry Village and Poetry Pacific.


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