Scribbles of the dead...

A garden where no flower sprouts
   Strewn with withered and dead blossoms
Sanctuary of silence along these years
   Damp smell of dried up tears
Blue tungsten lit garden
   Gloomy, dull and scary
Pale, still and little life
   Creeps that entwine & devour
All those in its way like love
   Moon, she hides
In the leafless branches of the willows afar
   Dust carried by the west gale
Reach this mauve stone throne
   Upon that spiders cocoon
And four feet’s own
   The stones that speakth
Of him who lays beneath
   The flowers you left then,
Dried, intact and unique
   Below the English cross, moss green
Reminds of the time you came
   And for one last time seen..
A dream revived and written - Vinod 11 Apr 05