By Shravani P.T.
Molten lids unclosed,
sipping the night dry
of serendipity,
If you flail your arms around
to somehow grasp
my after-scent in this city,
Remember to forsake
the reminiscence
of my once-musty self,
crouching by the moth-eaten fireplace,
And hungry walls –
falling - and folding in –
to now spray paint your ashen face –
No longer a face!
Merely a canvas
of fairy tales having come undone.
Throw open the iron gates,
and usher in the bees
that circle the glyph
around my sweetened remains,
From a time
when our memories
would travel through paper planes.
Stand guard in piety
at the Vatican
lest vultures invade,
The echoes of our vows
fluttering through
the Roman arcade.
Flirt at the edge
of the cliffside:
the exotic is more than a view,
Wear like armor
your crescendo,
and you'll dwarf a skyline (or two).
Sit by the lakeside,
and speak to flightless birds,
if you so please,
I will, perhaps, come to you
when you shun daylight
for the caress of the pine trees.
But do not look for me
in decayed letters
written to you in haste,
I've outgrown
being the forgotten,
the wasteland's waste.
Do not seek me
under an orchestra
of fickle stars,
My chock-full of bones
lie bleeding,
albeit, pride-filled,
from fighting fruitless wars.
Do not want me
after the sherry
has scorched your lips,
What's a brazen heart worth
when you're reaching
for just fingertips?
You will not find me
in this rancid
intimate swirl,
of dwellings that once had me.
Built me. Broke me.
But were never my only world.
By Shravani P.T.
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