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Memoir
Someday,
I'll pen those memories still spry; and yet old,
residing within incomplete stories and phrases untold.
Beside the empty photo-frame, in that half-burnt memoir,
I won't cite your name, yet divulge every last scar.
From that first love letter that is known to only a few,
to that one shirt that still smells like you;
Rotting inside the cupboard, concealed under the cigarette pile;
I’ll dig out every last feather of that dead bird and caress them like a vile.
With that withered pen
rusting down in one of my drawers,
I will write an eulogy, again;
but this time to every memory of yours.
For the sake of those vows in my reveries, I’ll heighten each page with blood splashes;
And then I'll pen those memories and then burn them down to ashes.
© Sagnik
I'll pen those memories still spry; and yet old,
residing within incomplete stories and phrases untold.
Beside the empty photo-frame, in that half-burnt memoir,
I won't cite your name, yet divulge every last scar.
From that first love letter that is known to only a few,
to that one shirt that still smells like you;
Rotting inside the cupboard, concealed under the cigarette pile;
I’ll dig out every last feather of that dead bird and caress them like a vile.
With that withered pen
rusting down in one of my drawers,
I will write an eulogy, again;
but this time to every memory of yours.
For the sake of those vows in my reveries, I’ll heighten each page with blood splashes;
And then I'll pen those memories and then burn them down to ashes.
© Sagnik
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