I look at the bricks
Of that mansion here and there.
The scattered bones of mine
Empathise with each of them.
The flower plants that have been
Planted on my remainings,
Look away from me, in shame.
I stand still in silence,
Much like winter fog.
Winter smiles at the irony,
But stops immediately,
Knowing that I, her soul opponent,
Won't be smiling or taunting her
No-more.
What's a farewell ?
Where's the pomp and grandeur ?
I ask Dew, finally smirking.
Grinning, she dares to touch me
Although there is no remainder
That can possibly be touched.
Pomp. Grandeur. Farewell.
I keep on walking again.
The smell of fresh tar
From the newly made avenue
Greets me.
The pretence of fragrance
From the flowers on my bones,
Is no where to be found.
As I go on, I don't look back
To see the withering.
YOU ARE READING
Remainders
PoetryA collection of poetry about the leftovers of human feelings. _____________________________________________ ** No part of this book should be copied or published anywhere else.** © Ipsita Mitra Pupu _____________________________________________ ✷All...
