Member Poem

The book was

gasping for breath

when I picked it

off the shelf.

In the alleys,

where the words

scrunch like gravel

under the feet

and the musty smell

of ages

weave a maelstrom

of questions at every step,

where bereft of human caress

books were dying-

letters hemorrhaging

from the wounds of time;

had I come

searching

for the fugitives

of my memories.

Rustling pages whispered,

of the rustling leaves.

Rotting ink had diffused like

the blotting pigments, of summer.

Petals had curlicued

and had become the alphabets.

The flower had died

and had become the book.