Ruins

It's about time we talk of ruins. So, let us talk, for you never know, How long ears of hope will remain receptive. Your lips are missing, and your kisses fall, Like ripe plums and tint my confession, Like coffee stains with smell of rust. Looking back, dreams had stories, About laughters blooming in dews on trembling grass, With roots growing into layers of blue skies. That dark sweater you began knitting, Lies lifeless by a woollen ball, Like buried half of a rainbow. My greys are silvery now, and my smile Looks like a scar, but my heart Keeps shredding dead skins. Footprints covered by caddish shadows Of hubristic tongues, Never to be retraced, and The wish to carry your whispers beyond life, Scavenged by beaks of time, Is nothing but a piece of History's torn chorion. Entangled in my pensive repentance, Memory of a girl (assuming), Whose playful steps ruefully erased Even before she was assisted into the world, Stares back from an obsolete painting. I sense blood seething in my veins, But with no ill-will. If only i could stop this hour from passing away, And touch life one more time, Gently and wisely, perhaps sweet palpitations Would be heard knocking from within. Lying in the heap of fallen bricks Of dilapidated castle of Eros, Where, once upon a time, Our romance was folktale for angels and fairies, I'm supposed to be bleeding the high-noon sun To feed yesterday's vampiric fleas. My body no longer lives on bread and grains, But on tears and prayers, and Keeps on living, surprising the undertaker and my foes, Who begin to think I am here to stay indefinitely. So, I labour to hasten my swan song To gladden those who want to witness my exit. The yarn with which I began weaving a flag, Has been sold to brothels of politics, Where patriotism is only a slang In perorations of capricious pimps. My nights are haunted by ghosts Of betrayed slogans I once coined on fisting graffiti. Standing amidst graves of words Spoken inconspicuously, I see soldiers placing putrid shocks and Ugly boots On books strewn across the floor Of my old school's library Which is now a fortified barrack. But when I see tombs sleeping like babies, In quietness of a cemetery, I beg you - Don't let me die without a wound, and Even if it is in pretensive nostalgia, Bury me with bloodstained kiss.