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A Narrative

Every new narrative has a new rhythm
A prologue. A body. And an end.

From the wax candles,
Those are ever ready to melt,
Flames rise to reach nothingness.
That space which is as hollow as mind itself.

On moonless nights like these,
I miss you the most. And on other days,
I miss you even more… Yet I wouldn’t have
You for the world at stake.
How can a leaf drift so far away?
How can the autumn theft desire such a heavy pay?

This isn’t poetry of despair.
Neither is it an ode to you,
It’s a celebration of the dewy
Residue that every tie leaves behind,
How can it still accumulate?
How can it still haunt, even the most draught-afflicted?

The threads char away.
Some fume stays behind doing
Rounds of cloistered cages called the soul.
It’s as lasting as fallen dew, broken branches
Or torn off relationships.

poem by Torsa Ghosal
Added by Poetry Lover
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