A poet,
they called her but
what she actually was
the stars that her daughter
would look at and whisper
a prayer; because
a word in the Bible looked like a sin.
Her house,
or maybe an empty
copper vessel with seeds
and languished clock sticks, with
numbers of love that held
the broken bones together.
Smiling faces in photoframes
but no one knows what
those lavender walls hide -
a wilting sunflower and
the poet's daughter;
always watering it with stars.
Crushed olives on her bed
and her mother, with an ink drop
on a wheelchair;
Her legs dangling limply while
the broken nibs painted the wheelchair.
But the daughter didn't understand
why everyone wore black dresses.
And, what was inside the big box?
Why were all her diaries burnt?
~Sampurna
YOU ARE READING
Ink And Echoes
Poetry♚ ❛ Juliet, Tell me what is it like to vanquish - When you tossed the coin, And stepped on the battleground, With the accent of swords. Still you stand, Hands dripping of sin. In search of Romeo, You killed, And killed, And died. ❜ { Highest rank in...
