If it does not carry the foot-marks
Left behind of them being walked and along
By dusk, amidst clouds and rain
Holding close, treading slow
For to keep the time from ticking away
One must hold it and fiercely
How good a page of book might be?
If it does not wear marks of finger that held it,
And read it in dark nights, in ghettos of solitude
For to keep the flames of love undiminished,
One must have caressed it and passionately
And yet, how good would it be, if perhaps
It does not carry the scars upon its face
Big and wide, right across one’s existence
How good darkness of night could be
If it does not bring words flowing through dried nibs
Silent screams upon lips, shrill of echoes back
To be killed and brought back to life
Every passing moment, as if heart being tied to tick tock of clock
Hanging by the wall, one that reminds of prison
Prison where one wakes up and slips back to sleep
Unknown of dusk and dawn
How good a silence to one
If it does not scream the cries and angst
One carries buried beneath layers of skin
That one wears around and displays colors, vivid
Only to be left shocked, strange to self
Standing naked in front of mirror, behind closed doors
Haunted by echoes of lies,
For what could scare one more than images several, one sees
In the mirror shattered in pieces, laying beneath feet
Holding drops of blood upon its edge, asking to be licked and wiped clean
How good shadows could be, to one
Alive and buried in darkness
Damp and smelling of wet leaves fallen upon
While sun scares to put one upon display
Even if its warmth could revive
Healed wounds, carries pain more subtle
A little ajar, they could let it bleed and let go
For being a fire-fly must die, burnt by slow-lit lamp
Than to fly around in abyss
By: Praveen Parasar
Date: 5/1/2014
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