Just that

I can’t put it into sublime words
or try to fit it in a sentence
because I wouldn’t be doing it justice.
It isn’t a silly ideology
or an impulsive whim
It is what has remained of
a burnt pride and a torn faith.
Why would I want to dirty my hands
with the amorphous memory
that flew into one of my eyes
and hurt till blood crept in
and tainted my very perception?
I am simply going to shed my clothes,
walk on the rim of an open river
and dive into its iciness
with a hope that it freezes
the ocean of emotion
that surges beneath my very being.