Dead blooms in old books, and lost recalls
Are they labors of love, or souls misspent?
I still, smell those springs, thru my many falls
Oh! Her apron strings, those letters, never sent!
Why so timid was I, lovelorn lad, in tangled teens
Measured love, in skipped beats, of a heart unspent
Her smile, her care, way beyond my means
Alas! Couldn’t lay my heart bare, those letters, never sent!
When words bled thru heart, or at least, I felt so
And I kindled my fire, to my heart’s content
Nerds call it “letter”, I christened it “chef-d’oeuvre”
Blue heart on pink platter, those letters, never sent!
Still scars afresh, of my tears, on them
Rusted paper ain’t they, not worth a red cent
But a blooming garden, in my heart’s mayhem
Will mutiny in me, till I’m undone, those letters, never sent!
© 2016 Vikas Chandra