A Woman's Love

A woman’s love runs deeper

Than the springs of sorrow

That crisscross life;

A woman’s love is purer

Than the first snow that swathes

The mountain tops.

A woman’s love flows free

As the doves that wing

The cerulean dome;

A woman’s love is gentle

As the happy breath

Of a sleeping babe.

Mysterious as the mist

That swirls in a vale astray;

A woman’s love is wild,

Like a forest fire

On a summer’s day.

A woman’s love, honestly returned,

Swells like the tide

On a full moon night,

And engulfs her lover

In perennial spate.

A woman’s love, if basely spurned,

Kindles fury- that shakes the hills,

Stills the roaring seas;

And spawns hurt that smoulders

In her grave.

GARBAGE

Here, hold my heart,

I’m much better off

Without this throbbing pain,

Without this need to love and to feel,

To laugh and to bleed.

Here, take my heart;

I’m much better off

In a static scorching summer

Sans emotion and all;

The colourful spring

Of blossom and birdsong,

Leads but to a melancholy autumn

Of smiles turning yellow and brown,

And falling off my life

With hardly a sound-

Like the tears from my eyes,

And ending in a frozen winter

Of perennial pain.

Here, hold my heart,

Please take it and leave,

And just dump it

In the nearest trash bin

You find, thank you.

FINE PRINT

This love has grown mouldy,
Left neglected in the monsoon,
Got rusty with disuse.
Words tender and true at the time,
With stony silence now turned stale-
Our perfect symphony
Long decayed into cacophony,
Memories of Heaven before Hell do pale...
Worm-eaten dreams and cankerous vows-
So much for our garden-fresh love!

Delivered in a bright blue carton,
Bought at an exorbitant price,
From that cheerful chubby lad
In the store down the street;
Sigh! Our hard-earned time
Gone down the drain!

"Sorry, madam, I’m afraid nothing
Can be done about it," said the lad
Politely, cheerful as ever,
When the unsatisfactory product
I thrust on the counter.
"The affection, I agree, has curdled,
The happiness has rotten, the memories mouldy;
But the pain, the hurt, the bleeding wound,
Are still so fresh, as we promised."

Cursing myself, I returned dejected-
I should have read the fine print
On that bright blue carton
Of garden-fresh love.