You used to say you planted serraphic souvenirs when we were in amorous amor,
You said your parched heart was coloured with rainbow coloured crumbled flower,
Where did it all go wrong & bitter in the meantime my poetic muse, my lover,
That there is no place for me now, except your memories of grief and dolor.

There was a time we met as beautiful strangers on the narrow concrete cloister,
You were crooning the elysian euphonies like an angel in the mid of november,
While I swayed along to the dulcet beats like a charming and graceful danseur,
On cold night under the flickering light from stars on that cloudy and sombre winter.

Now I sleep on withered roses having dreams about your addictive sinful allure,
And about your brownish poetic eyes that sing myriad melodies of devilish and unholy torture.
But you don't seem to be there when my eyes are out from the numbing closure,
How can I call it love when only I am the one weaving milky way of kyanite desire.

The angst of time or the way of dark destiny what should I call this hellfire,
That has appeared like firestorms in fine fragnance, fading the passionate fervour.
I wish withered love embalmed with lavender in my soul irrigated with tributaries of elixir,
Blooms again dispersing sweet scented odour like the beautiful jasmine and juniper.

Timeless streams of secrets that were shared under the mourning morning star,
And the chronicles of forsaken tales of our love etched on hearts made of paper,
Needs to be preserved pristinely and carefully like pearls in glassy oyster,
Because those simple emotional escapades & delectable dreams are our poesia of ardour.


© Swagat Panda