Left with me

left with me, an old worn out novel,

he gave me for a reading,

I returned back one of my own

by an oversight, and thus I carry

his fingerprints ingrained in the words,

that whirl their wings inside my head,

vying through my voice, feeding me

with sweetening and tart rudiments

of the narrative,

.

when I glance at the first leaf,

I discover his mother’s forename

penned carefully, it belonged to her

and I trace (whom I’ve never met)

her trail, in smears of her sweat

as she must have turned the pages,

levying her ownership on the print,

that being possessed by me now,

I feel a thief

.

Image source

A simple piece for dVerse Meeting the Bar. I had earlier added a further two lines, but for me, the end this way holds more meaning.

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Down the road she went…

down the road she went

with a letter in her hand,

summoning the post master,

she told him of her predicament-

he who was gone to war

had not returned back,

what had appeared was a sheet

smeared with a blood like seal,

she who could not read a single word

plead before the kind gentleman

to tell her what it contained,

 ~

the bespectacled man read carefully

and told her, her son was well,

that was what the letter said

while he faced away from her,

he handed back to her the sheet

and confirmed that her son was fine,

he had reached his final abode,

away, safe from war and hunger,

 ~

she shrieks, cries, wails, screams,

clutching the collar of his shirt,

and befell on her knees,

praying for who was never to return,

he supported her up and

they looked at each other,

waiting for the other one to

break that ominous silence

but it remained all still

while the sun dipped into the sea,

leaving behind a trace of red tinge.

a certain trace

the days of past

leave a certain trace

on the life’s mast

which is not always a grace,

.

they do leave a certain trace

which influences our future sail

which won’t always be a grace

because of the troubling gale

.

which influences our future sail

on the life’s mast

because of the same troubling gale

of the days of past.

(Poetic form:- Pantoum)