By Chhaya Mondal
Like a million hands reaching out in vain,
With the wind its crutch and Cane,
Down came the oblique rain.
Whistling windows make the curtains blush,
Streams of sand slither down
a half-eaten watermelon by the windowsill.
All cloches lifted; Old wounds served anew.
Indelible blots of ink run like little black ants
Across sheets of half-written poems.
Her droopy dungarees in the balcony flutter,
Like the lone spotted dove sheltering behind the lampshade.
Yellow leaves gather at the doorstep
A year’s work of forgetting wasted.
Capsized paper boats drift ashore
Laden with washed-up promises.
Fifteen steps they said; to deep-six my pain,
To be followed meticulously and methodically;
Little did I know that it was all in vain.
Fish-bone tears now dislodged,
Find harmony with the rain.
Chhaya is an out of work Film Technician, pop psychology & Wikipedia junkie, and a Mubi fanatic. Her peanut butter is crunchy.