To abscond from the
Pages of my diary.
The photographs have
Decided to fade away from
The old albums.
An invisible hand holds
The face of all the memories
Against a wall and rubs it up
Till the skin comes off.
What's left is a white blanket
Of salt- sour and saline.
But despite the douse
And despite the dusk.
Something inside makes
A strong appeal for
Resurgence.
Who's there? It asks.
Who's there?
And there's a subtle
Knock from the other side.
And that seems enough.
It's someone's presence
That challenges the
The stink of inevitable..
Like fragrance.
Like a single breath is
Mightier than death.
A thought of you beats
The shit out of oblivion.