• santor_674 47w

    #art
    #roadc
    // The road to abandonment was easy to travel , but arduous to rebound back//

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    LAST DAY OF MY DIARY.

    It's been 2 years, since I left to transcribe in my book with a set of poetries. I could still retrospect about the last day I scribed out in that book. It was akin to a diary with a black rose imprinted over the book case. It conventionally galloped my incomplete verses, riven rhymes, discorded rhythms and ambiguous metaphors into a cuisine of poetries. Black ink oozing out of my reed allured many but I had an uncertainty since I found that book.
    21st June 2019 , I was indulged in an arduous task of writing an elegy. It has gulped much of my time for it had wavered my mind into divergent roads of contemplations and then I started off- "On the dark night when the sun had dipped itself beneath the cluster of trees , I started to feel the roads ahead of me being longer and longer .." Hush! The lights went out. I walked out to the door and found the clouds becoming darker and intense and then few droplets drizzled over me . I drenched myself in the heavy downpour when a ring came in my telephone. I ran and picked it up , it was from the hospice in which my grandfather was admitted. My silence was perceived by them with my tears washing my muddy shoes. I laid down in the carpet for hours.
    Recalling that day makes me feel grieved yet tears are now not enough to express them. Picturising the black rose ; the black ink and my idea on that day to write an elegy correlated with each of them. Yet I decided today to visit the same cranky house . It was a journey of two hours and I walked to the dry and wilted garden - no one to take care of. And then unlatching the door , I found the diary and stepped out of the house to see a rainbow flourishing in vivid hues in the dim sky. But I never turned my whispers into sound poetries.
    And now the rhymes wither themselves , the metaphors fade themselves and the sonnets undress their beauty
    Though at times I incline to write, I said to myself - Abandoned things are never restored back to their initial form , they remain as memoirs twinkling in the dreamy skies of fantasies.
    ©santor_674