my love is like
a coiled up spring
beating where the heart
was---a hollow, consuming
everything.
my love is like
a black mask, o'er
my face--- a dirge
where there was once
joyous space.
my love is but a photograph, plastic
lifeless memory---my love is but
a forgotten taste, the tongue cannot
feel, but closed eyes can see.
Anirban Kapil Baishya (7/10/2011)
No comments:
Post a Comment