Where To Find Me When I Die
Inbetween the blues
of a freckled April sky,
weaving verses in a language
that only a dead can decipher.
I will write about spring and
daisies blooming by my grave
and hope will visit me when
I will stop breathing.
But I will be happy to see her,
for atleast she remembered me
even if I lack a heartbeat.
Alongside each stroke of paint
upon my sister's priceless canvases
I hide as shadows, dressed in greys.
For all my life I have been a dark
metaphor,
fragile to touch, heavy to wear -
but art finds it's immortality
and the universe, now
takes my sister's face
and pleads for my greys to stay.
Upon those lazy satin folds
where my lilac perfume still linger,
where my philosophies hide
which I often recite to calm my
stubborn heart
and where I have realised
that love does not always leave you
heartbroken -
love leaves you in poetries,
which will taste like honey
in peoples mouth
except for yours.
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