The demonic holy-book

 

Silence louder than noise,

Her absence denser than her presence,

A flood of joyful pain

at her memories’ touch.

 

My horde of memories

stored in a ceramic money-pot,

Storing her essence

drop by drop in the form of lovely coins,--

the colors of spring in her deep, big eyes;

the eyes the gateway to her soul;

the silken, straight tresses;

lips full with a pout of feminine mischief.

 

The ceramic pot of memories,

I hold it safe against a chance fall,

It’s full, can’t have more coins,

But I try to push one more coin,

Some new coin, glinting with

the polish of the present times,

But you can’t recycle the rusted

coins of the past to mint new ones,

I want to keep it forever,

Because breaking it will scatter the coins,

And that would mean

losing even the illusion of still having her,

So the dilemma to keep it or break it

works like a see-saw cutting the heart’s meat.

 

A book,--

my scripture,

Having a love note

and a rose

slipped between the pages,

I don’t open the page

where the love note stays safe

because opening it might

tear it at the folding edges,

I don’t open the page

where the dry rose lies in its grave

because it will fall apart if touched,

Is it a holy scripture

or a demonic book?

For I love it so much

as to get scared to touch it.