the lush lip of
a dewy petal, suede and pale,
bruises are a hazard that blares
sharply in diffuse fragrance,
crushed veins, a slowly drooping head …
shamelessly to be discarded by the eye.
the flower has more in common
with the grave beneath it
than with the feet that trod above.
one keeps running from a given,
the other knows:
there’s nowhere else to go.
Copyright © 2019 Devina Singh
My two sisters and our little brother. This was taken almost a month ago at the beach.
Time is an abyss to which our lives will eventually be lost, slowly eroded in the minds of the people we knew. We will just be stories to the people who comes after us, some of us become legends and heroes, some of us plain folks and some will me fondly be called upon as the nefarious villains on this big stage. It’s a strange feeling to realize our lives are books, we are the characters stepping in time to the pace and place written in our plots by the quill of fate. But who is this fate that decides for us? Is it ourselves or is it just written in stone? I’d like to believe it’s the former.
I will, in the end, be a faded picture, hopefully kept in an album to be passed on to generations. Perhaps my many great-grand children will wonder who’s that lost looking lady with the silly face? If my name is written on the back, will it ring in their minds and will inspire them to make up tales where I was a Lara Croft, or will they see me as a wacky librarian? Perhaps I was a wacky librarian who lead a double life of the adventurer or, heck, even a spy! I chuckle at the thought.