Monday, 3 December 2012


Perhaps, a veil made of the evidences, that gave me away;

To be reclaimed by your dissonance, pregnant with a calm;

And be a prisoner to the mystery which makes up your heart;

Me, an endless today betrothed to your strange eventuality;

You an ageless tug, a tomorrow after the time ceases to be;

A book by shape only, turned otherwise to a tiny slab of dust;

On your bookshelf, also must be lying, trapped in remission;

Memory, a darkness , passionately incubating all the dreams;

The long silent pauses, illuminations, blackout with an abandon;

Perverse strings of a million spaces and of the millions of faces;

Disappearing into a dot, lonely and pointless, vanquished;

Such a posit of wish-less devotion, your memory, my absolution;

Memory, that props up as a wall of separation, only to become;

The very path, that puts us up in unison, an echo unto the void;

Patience of our shame, witness to the desecration of insularity;

A shade of cold light embracing the shadow of sanguine darkness;

Life not even an existence, only odd presence, mere absence of us;