I have a book of songs,
a collection of antique emotions,
carefully crafted for someone
Like how seedlings germinate
inside the womb of the good green Earth
feeling the warmth of a watchful Sun
Yet I pick up another,
a chronicle sans embellishments,
A tale every bit pure, every bit unspun
A familiar fear grips me -
clouds me, maims me, ****** me
as I open it with glum expectations
But I feel myself break,
to know of my absence from this tome,
with each page I anxiously turn
Did I not deserve
a chapter, a line, atleast a word?
Maybe I will find a footnote - none!
Oh my dear heart,
Do not expect in return something better
because you've surrendered to her memories
Equivalence is just, but justice is not a quality
How do you plan to **** the one
whom you've already granted immortality?
At the price of a pun, get a paradox free.