'So,
To the abbey?'
A sound from behind.
'Hezekiah Hawk.'
'Yes, yes, Ezra.'
I turned to him.
He is standing
At the door
To the hut.
Ezra.
A boy thirteen.
A goy he is.
Good joy he masks.
A ploy not seen.
A toy his brain:
He plays a lot.
Steered me a smile,
His pale blue eyes.
And he cuddled more,
In his blanket-wrap.
I went in,
Ruffling his hair
On the way
With my hand left.
The aim.
Not at the abbey,
But at the abode-
David's Abode,
A tourist house;
Uninhabited
For the past years many.
Why?
No one can
Open the door.
They blame ghosts.
And I am a skeptic
Who believe in ghosts.
'Oh my divinity!'
What is it?
My heart escalated.
Over the table-!
No scientific science
Can explain this.
An invisible
Has taken my pen
And jots over a paper.
I walked forth;
Towards it.
At its probable
Position of wrist,
Tried a grab.
As expected,
Nothing happened.
The pen got dropped,
And the text was done-
What do u think is the text?
To be revealed at the next update!! :)
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Open the Door
PoesíaYou know the door, You have the key, Now, OPEN THE DOOR #18 in poetry (Jun 2017) A random old lady approaches Hezekiah Hawk saying that he is not any random wanderer as he claimed to be, but someone who was brought to those hills of south India by...
