Laying on the blanched coverings Of a mattress supported faltingly On a wrecked bedstead of existence, I stare in vain at the once virescent Floral patterns imprinted on the fabric, Now all faded, resembling well-nigh The old letters stored in the cabinet. Blue ink smudged on the white, Creating a paradigm of turquoise rillets Cascading through the paper. I turn to the old photograph, A souvenir caged within A wooden frame sculpted by The hands of some unnamed carver. Portraying the volatility Of all mortal entities at large.
// My mind leafs through the pages Of my unscripted memoir, Each chapter smells of burnt roses, Ignited as a ritual on my demise. I dust off the ashes And watch them flutter away, In the puffs of my moribund breath. //
I wish the world to remember me even then, Not as the last word of their favourite tales, But as the library that preserves all the volumes They couldn't keep for themselves. I wish to be the melody still chiming at your ears After you disengage a phone call with your lover, For your mind may someday abandon The lyrics of your favourite song But never the melody that made your heart flutter The very first time you ever fell in love. I wish the world to remember me still, As a sapphire ring they come across at some store, That reminds them of the azure sky That adorned the happiest day of their life. If not any one thing, I'd still wish to be an artefact you safeguard Within the delicate glass cabinet in your room, That you procured on the pilgrimage you made, With the purpose to mirror the sanctity You would rever for all eternity.