Wednesday, March 11, 2015


The cold wind creeping upto me,
The eerie sound of the bark flaking away,
Coming on fast like an approaching train.
One day the circumference will be covered,
Leaving me naked, unprotected.

No, I'm not ready yet,
The wind pierces my soft skin,
The sun charrs my innocence.
I still need the warm, woody blanket, the fragrant viel of Love.

How I want to hold on to you!
But with no arms, I'm helpless.
Look! I'm perspiring- the agonising shivers it sends through me.
Each passing second thumping on my chest like a dagger.

See I'm bleeding,
With each piece forced away from me.Can't You see?
Let me die with my bark,
Or I'll bleed to death anyway.

Don't you want to see for yourself, asks the Voice,
How the morning breeze feels like in early spring?
The summer heat which tests every drop of patience you can muster,
The freshness of monsoon drizzling over you, promising a new shoot,
The cozy warmth of closeness in the winter, pray, don't you want to feel?

The care of the old will never fade.
Look on your body, each departing fibre has left an impression,
You are, but a mould of the old Cast.
A living testimony of the cocoon that once was.

Don't dissappoint the imago, whimpering like a losing soul!
Yeah! The imago has to complete the circle.
But the young bark? What about it?
It'll stay moist- delicate and tender,
Lest the trickle of sweet scent should dry up,
And leave me thirsty till I die, thirsty for more.

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