The Gift

Poems dripped in passion,

bound by the string of this heart,

were the maximum I could provide.

Gifts of affection,

affection through words

were all this poor soul could strive.

Parchments which remind me of your fragrance

are kept near my bed.

To what has been done to those papers

which bore my signature , I fear.

Have you been asked to burn them?

Are they ripped and torn?

or like everything else,

they too have been thrown,

in a discarded corner, they are locked?

These were the splendours

my small , torn pocket

those days could only hope for.

But now you must have,

jewels that sparkle,

glittering and scintillating,

which brighten your glow.

To what must my gems stand now?

accessories to beautiful you,

surely those dry stones,

their shine must have worn off.

Picture of you is still there,

you glowing and dimming the shine of that candlelight,

kept hidden in a book,

on the binding of which

your name resides.

There are many more images

which are stacked away in this heart,

but they turning to peel away and fall.

As after the picture you had send me,

saying, to me and only me it belonged

So carelessly you put that on auction,

as an exhibit for this world to gaze upon?

These gifts and words were a part of my soul

a part which I had willingly sacrificed.

Laid down in your arms,

for a smile on your face

was all this poor soul had strived.

The gift of the forbidden, unspoken word

was the best this poor soul had tried.

Using that gift to ignite his heart again,

would that be the best way for the last good bye?

Let the poet sleep, disturb him not.

He sleeps in his wooden casket,

surrounded by your gifts and memories

and a flare that still burns in his heart.