Beauty Seen is Never Lost

Take it all.
My tipped-to-the-side bookcase – break it down to irrevocable lumps of wood.
Step on it if you must; touch the shards you’ve brought down with that steel hammer of yours.
And those books of mine- dog-eared, frayed, with their laden sheets and penciled-in thoughts- Burn them out, those pages, rip them to the core,those salty tears, those fingerprints, those eye lashes clinging on just about, those days enclosed firmly inside – hotel rooms with white linen sheets withholding runaway schemes, bus journeys, waiting areas and airport queues– burn them, burn it all.
It won’t be an offense, not a felony, nor a crime; those fingers typing official documents with color-coordinated logos , filing city applications, and sending out already-planned requests; they won’t be pointing at you, they won’t see a sacrilege, they won’t know the severity of that smoldering scent of burnt literature and individuals.
Go on then, burn it all with ease; take your shoes off and dance on its ashes. Feel it under the sole of your feet. It wouldn’t matter. There are no mahogany tables, no courts, no stern voices questioning your motives, no justifications, no consequences that’d ripple your existence as you know it, no threats of demolishment, no conscience that’d drag the admission out of you, no substance that’d anchor you down to the ground nor the exact contrast that’d defy gravity and lift you up a bit. There’s just, No Thing. With capitalized emphasis.
So there you go, that’s my hand handing it all to you,
An that’s my soul- under your soleless feet.

Posted by Diddlina at 4:48 PM