a legacy.of stories.
reluctant inheritance.
sitting in a pile of ash
wading in a pool of blood
tells.me this
blotting
burning
bleeding out
of stories
has been futile.
they are more alive
than ever.
engulfed in a scent
i have failed to notice.
raat ki rani on a winter's night.
dying jasmine temple discards.
a long shut up room.
an old book.a new dress.
wet earth.mould
summer breeze.
autumn haze.
but every scent.
scentlessness itself.
imbued.with you.
my stories have become
all about you.
you have disinherited me.
my beggared existence
knows not
what the greater burden is.
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