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


TOP

Share Writeups whatsapp