Wrinkled and Memories


The wrinkles on my face
Appear just as the cloth which has not been ironed for ages
It’s age which is catching up with me
I being the thief running barefoot
And age driving in a police van

Everything is even
Or I should say double
In my house
As you can see
Two coffee mugs
Chairs, remote, towels,
Locks, keys, novels
The only thing odd
Is me, A living one

I used to stay
Along with arguments
Having no solutions
Until on a silent gloomy night
The arguer
Withdraws her participation
I get a solution
Not in my favour

I am spending
Or rather counting
My guilt-laden days
In hope of being pardoned

Till date, I make two beds
Sleep alternatively on each
Still, every day wake up
Seeing the same dream
Of me being sentenced
To death, for Murder

by AVISHESH JHA

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