I bleed from the bruises,
unseen dribble and drifts,
shaping the speckles slowly,
mar not the mirror of my memory
but the sponge of my character
– so soaked and heavy ….
I reflect on my fragrant past
like a baby lulled in maternal arms,
with a settled heart and a poultice of warmth,
swathing the cuts, salving my missing shards
I shed when I feel my heart….
I found myself in labyrinth of time,
and you find this host riddled by parasites
seeds of mephitic moments ooze of rage,
silently changing, slightly every time,
as every encounter conjures a fresh decline
do you see such saline conduct of my appetite?
©Written Frames, 2018
How strange it is that I hardly hold any memory to reflect upon if it is not the memory with happy faces….
And how strange it is that I think of such memories with a heavy heart which is nothing but a by-product of emotions that bad moments had planted in my behavior all along….