Do They Just Exist Like Us, Or Do They Also Have A Life?

Watching the play of light coming through a keyhole on the ceiling in her dark room at night, and the particles of duct in the rays, the poet wonders.

Watching the play of light coming through a keyhole on the ceiling in her dark room at night, and the particles of duct in the rays, the poet wonders.

Dark night
gives pleasure
to hear things quiet
I ignore throughout
the
day- days
week -weeks
year-years
The breath going in
coming out
create a melody I’m mustn’t miss.

Ceiling above me
create a pattern of poetry
with light
when a small keyhole
in the door
allows the aura
to seep into,
It is deep and clear
the dust particles
are dancing in it
Do they also talk like us?
or
Do they just exist?
like some of us!

Now when I quit the porch
of my house,
things become a little louder
yet allow me
to hear the fluttering of maple leaves
or flickering of old street lamps
Leaves are the ones,
who are yellow and dead
they fall
on the lake covered with algae
they met
kissed
and
celebrated death.
Lamps who are rusted
yet flicker
in hope of another day.
I noticed all this
yet it isn’t just me
living in this city of poems…

Image source: Sinnita Leunen on pexels

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About the Author

Geetika K. Bakshi

A passionate scribbler and wishful bread earner. A working professional in an embassy and a freelancer French language trainer. A voracious reader and loves to connect readers and writers. Author of Ibiza by Geetika Kaura ( read more...

40 Posts | 60,557 Views

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