Inside the Matters of Its Namesake

It could never contain these things inside, they amass so high –mountains of them Whispers from the many who have ventured in, now silent echoes heard till its rhythm stops Weakness pays a visit now and then to interrupt the day to day pulse, adding things to make it drip-drop… I can see pain whenever I want, just peer through its scrapbook, edge worn pictures of the many who still whisper litter the pages Some days I have no use for it; it gets beaten so badly, unrecognizable... I excuse it from function, I shelf it, it can serve its purpose some other day One day soon maybe I’ll lock the doors, shut all out and purge the halls, seek the dark corners where voices still whisper and relieve the books of its photographs Reward those who took liberty with it with an onslaught of my own, riding on the wings of vengeance as I send pain in search for a new home I guess this won’t change my vital organ of flesh, still unable to hold what it produces, none for the better I suppose Doomed by its addiction to the matters of its namesake, no ride of retribution can cure it, nor rash recourse redress it… Since the Sculptor’s last bit of clay produced it –it has been strong in its beat and pinned to the sleeve of my life, where like many it will remain precariously exposed Shielding it will only reduce its splendor, a sun masked behind an overcast of guarded feelings…. Sealing its doors, hardens it; shelving it lends to atrophy; sending indiscriminate flames throughout its contours will cleanse love and pain alike Let whispering voices echo its halls, and allow its library of annals to provide a refuge for pictures, Love will have a place in it to live and to die and with both provide aging testimony of immortal words… Written 10 December 2013 at North KAIA -Kabul, Afghanistan (North Kabul International Airport)