Sunday, May 4, 2008

The Flower

The flower was a nymph-like beauty,
Red, Violent, full of love and lust.
It was born like an expectation,
Out of memory and conviction.

It had the memory of
A young man who came running,
Smelled, Kissed, then slowly
Walked back to the street.

It had the conviction that
A flower could metamorphose
Into a star, with the roots
Always wet, deep, knowing.

And so it lived and lived
Until it decided to die soft;
The petals simply fell out smiling
While petals were still revelling.

*this poem is dedicated to Aswathy and Chintan, who took great pains to explain to me why and how it is "tellingly erotic"