The Tomb

The book was
gasping for breath
when I picked it
off the shelf.

In the alleys,
where the words
scrunch like gravel
under the feet

and the musty smell
of ages
weave a maelstrom
of questions at every step,

where bereft of human caress
books were dying-
letters hemorrhaging
from the wounds of time;

had I come
searching
for the fugitives
of my memories.

Rustling pages whispered,
of the rustling leaves.
Rotting ink had diffused like
the blotting pigments, of summer.

Petals had curlicued
and had become the alphabets.
The flower had died
and had become the book.

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