The Bequeathed Aisle

A vivid picture of his dark past, breathes into life.

Loitering in the grey foliage of the dim street lamp,

He, often takes a scuba dive into the chasm of thoughts.

Always to be in the menu platter of a lucky handful,

Is love so costly to afford for a commoner, inclusive of if’s and but’s?

The thorns which drape the rose stem materialize as pricks of poison,

Fail to numb the half-choked windpipe, freezing the air within.

Guilt and Grief, cross swords to murder the conscience.

The remnants shred as tears, which refuse to be coaxed out, dyed with sin.

She, remains oblivious in her own world, without a pinch of regret,

Stabbing with arrows of ignorance at will.

Hers is a distant memory today, he comprehends.

Annihilated and torn apart, the fabric of her memories, no longer kill.

Life takes a drastic turn, as smog lifts revealing the moon.

His eyes, transverse through the long path of eighteen years,

Contemplating the turn of events, a smile settles down on his lips.

Never before a happiness so innate, so peaceful found shelter in him.

Stabbed by his Aphrodite’s eyes, every night he sleeps.

Jet black eyes, stare at him, peeling off the sad burns on his face,

As the lines of laughter, sprinkle from the cheeks.

The unknown smell of hair, auburn at places, feels torn from heaven,

As a wish to feel its lucidity, overtakes him, but bleak.

The moon blushes looking at her face, for it is an insignia,

Of the power of beauty, that her heart does irradiate.

He knows the crossroads her conscience has been at,

Having penned down her life, a caricature of fate.

He finds it difficult to tear his eyes away from her face,

There is truth embedded in her innocence, so naïve.

Longing to cuddle and hug the teddy bear, fair not brown,

The pillow gets crushed, its softness does deceive.

Fate, reads a letter scribbled in blood, the very next day.

‘Blessed are those who find shelter in such a heart’s alcove.

Let me find peace, in the tranquil She.

Her heart be mine, smeared with scars of betrayal and hurt, so burnt.

If a war it is, against you, to win the apple of my eyes, so it be.

I bequeath you an aisle, our steps gracing the shower of flowers someday.

Keep that smile alive, even though I lose,

For my ashes, as you happily forage and hunt.’