Withering Petals: A Poem by Khushboo Shah

 

I know you take me as a sign

Of the prime of life having passed by,

Of living in the shadow of the peak

Of senility and withering, so to speak.

Of someone who is helplessly shriveling,

Staring at her imminent end;

Of being shoved into a pile of dust,

The vagaries of fate, upon me thrust.

Solving the 'loves me, loves me not' conundrum,

Adorn a wedding or garnish a delicacy,

Dancing in circles in a ten tiered Rangoli,

I have been the quintessential girl, carefree.

I've also live in a book, fragrant and old,

Holding a story within me untold,

I stay, while the funeral procession passes like a wave,

To watch a lone visitor, talking to the grave.

Till dust I become, I savor each day

Reveling in my repertoire.

As manure then, a shrub I may nourish,

And a rose shall bloom, after I perish.