Thursday, July 21, 2011

alley of flower














He often holds my hand and walk along with
in a summer noon
on melted tar, black and brutal like lava;
Death;
he is a constant companion,
in his grim sarcasm,
accompanying all human efforts;
courteous, quaintly curious, with a huge robe
that seemed as tangled as my existence,
 he would drop in for a chat
like an old lover
to have pillow talk on my ailing bed;
and then again, at times, right across, like a stranger
turning me numb, scraping my nerves
with a metallic screeching of wheels;
at times, I see him wild and passionate,
rampant in his irritation at human foolish ness.
I trap concern in my fingers and
 clutch conscience to my chest
and guiltily rush towards safety.

‘What is it you fear?’ he asks in his surprised baritone.
His voice, a caressing whisper against my skin,
he says there’s an alley of flowers, beyond,
where eternal light filters like rain drops.
There are white flowers everywhere,
  White, the color of purity and a woman’s sorrow,
mingling with the fragrance of wet earth.
There are night queen jasmines,
flowers for the bride and the dead.
Death goes on describing,
his breath, like the softness of flower petals,
like a blessing.






Friday, July 15, 2011

city bleeds ...