By Keshav Kumar Mittal
Let me take you there,
It’s been a while since I opened its doors,
I pack it down below, double lock the doors,
Yet somehow in the dark it glows.
Takes emotional blows,
Pumps, breathes and bleeds,
Rather, as if to say, in reality,
It ebbs and flows.
I love to open it as much as I avoid it.
I walk through aisles and reach the transepts,
I feel the blood flowing through them,
It rushes through the valves and
flows back to the end with a white noise.
Placed within a rib vaulted chest,
In the pillar nave of my body, it rests.
Double barrel vaulted on the top and
Arching slightly towards the left in the bottom.
Inside, the atrium have corinthian columns,
The ventricles supported by plinths of passion.
The impasse bends centrally, and,
the inverted sharp pediment, is permanent.
The main alter is empty and silent,
The statue been stolen about a decade ago, yet,
The bell long forgotten.
The cannon ball metastasis apparent, vivid and alive,
Multi-drug resistant now, immune to all new human stimulations,
Susceptible to only any divine interventions.
It’s dark but more like ruby-red then any shade of black, in colour,
inherited from my ancestors, maybe it’s blue blood but now much duller.
It glows because it’s dark,
Yet as light as little lark.
Finding solace in nature’s daily art,
A welcome walk into my heart.