One hundred and twenty three more- chapters that remained unsung, in the room’s muggy corner. I cringed under the sheets as I liked the coherence with my indefinite pain. Better than ascertaining that it will remain untouched, unsung always.
He adored her desolation more, tearing apart those many luring pages.
amid the canopy of shallow hearts
she discovered you
to the beat of her footsteps
singing, you walked towards her
to pallid destination, too
starting to ink you down
you seemed like an endless abyss blinding her veins from capturing yours
her scribbles of dusk were woven in corner
for it to stab you
walls ached for space
lone, filled with arid emotions
she walked furthermore
probing your intention
isn’t it you who should test?
on a berm
she lost you, abrupt
a thing she feared
under the flickering yellow
still walking over
hoping to find you
bark of the tall tree is dead
walls have begun to crack
iron poles in the corner of our backyard is
flowers in the garden
narrow passages that once led to a fresh pond
became shady- creepers twining all over
my imprudence need to be punished
for i kept waiting
for many in life
people and incidents
that never occured
one question if i had answered
to rescue me from this trap- of waiting
my book would have had
new characters and less wrinkles
why am i waiting
is the one that’d have
saved my time from
people and incidents
His hands were speaking the same language since twenty-five years. The wrinkles had flattened, the broom’s handle marks were etched in his palm— on the brim of the facial wrinkles were his due responsibilities. Shaping his son’s career was his duty. The filth he swept away knew the taste of his tears, his sweat. The end was near and he wanted it to be that moment— waiting to be hit by any random vehicle that rushes past, hoping that to unhook him from his accountability, life’s selfish demands. The early morning rays fell subtly on his face, adding a glow to his undone jobs.
The pathway was clean, ready to hold fresh autumn leaves. He went and sat on the porch, leaning onto the pillar, dropping the broom. He waited.
Waited for his dead son, to fulfil his duties of shaping his son’s career who will never show up.
He was brimming with obligations, non-existent ones.