by Pallavi Ghosh
(New Delhi, India)
Everything shall pass they say;
For those that don’t,
A world is yet to be born.
Because some things are like those little lice;
Too fond of skin, blood and your sweat;
Just too adamant to be forgotten.
While most things will pass
And slip through my ever slippery hands
Like an exclamation mark-
The dot lost somewhere in the air-
Some things will not.
Some things will just bend themselves,
And hook themselves to some part of me.
Like some stubborn question mark!
Dissatisfied with every answer I create!
And with every familiar face turned unfamiliar;
With every memory turned opaque;
Stuck with a myth of my own
And outdated memories, Jaded and worn,
I will be the only broken shard;
The perfect misfit
In an all-too-neat scheme of things...