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.