dilated tears, those that cut through your eyes – in the
silence of hope, I know love will call for me part-time;
working myself just to prove forever. but it always stays
the same, fighting the headache of it all – smiles dissolving
away like an aspirin in a glass of water

where you rest your mind on everything you had; memories
are just gravestones, where we bury ourselves in – hoping
they too find their resurrection

in memory; I’ve written dreams of love on chiselled marble
slabs – lettered in gold, where we loved each other, close
enough to death; ending if all off as two concrete bodies

love makes death jealous, on how good it plays the waiting
game. the still waiting of a grandparent, who reaches their
own old age, knowing in death, they will finally meet their
lover once again.
                love is age, and that love is beautiful!

We live,
We suffer long enough
To die,
Ask a man , old,
Older than those streets,
Who moulds memories in the footpath
Of misery,
1 or a million die in his existence
Still he lives,
He lives In those ashes n graves
And questions,
Is he a boon or so unloved to be betrayed by death,
His bones tremble n crack,
Lifting weight of dead
Dead that were ones alive
To make him stop question
That why he lives,
Now as he narrows down
His vision to embrace,
He personifies
His desperation to die,
Be it the scarf or the pen,
Or Rotting in the fen,
Or bathing in the acid,
Or not so happy ig placid,
Be it the snakes or the worms,
Or leaches in their throngs,
Devouring his curse,
As he crumble down his purse,
He whisper to his lady,
Who lives in her arcady,
They will cross their paths aboon,
As he still thinks,
He will get his death so soon.

A row of benches

bends along the garden paths --


for the elderly.

The ancient duty
to take care of each other:
taxes came from it
so we had to learn to count

Great fun, we count
paving stones and marbles
the candles on the cake
and the money in our name

We understand the world
and classify everything properly
young and old, poor and rich
(stereotypes that grow with us)

until the numbers become too large
so many repetitions and memories
added up a rich life
that must be celebrated

Now no candles
but everyone is present
whether they want a piece of cake or not
and all children are there

In the dawning of my years, I've found
A love that makes my heart abound
With joy and laughter, sweet and true
I'm happy to age with you

As time marches on, we grow old
But our love only grows bold
Through wrinkles and graying hair, we'll see
The beauty in our love's history

We'll reminisce on days gone by
And cherish every tear and sigh
For growing older has its charms
In each other's arms

I'm happy to be in love with you
To face the years, both old and new
Hand in hand, we'll walk this stage
And grow older, but never age

So let the years come rolling in
We'll face them with a sweet, contented grin
For in each other, we find our youth
And the eternal truth

That love is timeless, ageless, free-
And in your arms is where I'll be
So, let the days turn into years
I'll grow older with you, my dear.

The end of Memory
Hard and dull, matt surface
Plaster white and bitter
Tasting of no return, no reruns
Just a passing out of reach
Animate to inanimate
Clockwork spring extending

End of memory
Not forgetfulness of a Lotus eater's gape
Nor distance crowded out
With noise and meaning filling
All the gaps
The spaces left for colour and
The lines that merge in a single
Perspective point

Of memory
Gradual fading and graduation
Stutters of old strangeness
Pretences of identity
Nighttime of distant blues
Past sunsets
Or mountains drawn
Childish grey pyramids
Sinking in childish grey sands

Memory
Unspoken and
Matt and
Linear and
Lunar and
Lastly
And

Only when you're old

do you know: it doesn't matter --


if you're postponing.

The children go play,

grandpa is drowsy, today --


No stories today.

Where do I end up?

Didn't I steer well or am I --


being pushed away?