The Photograph

I held it in my arms, gripped with care
Like an old man’s only asset that remains,
And I gazed it again but seemed blurry
For the rolled down tears of no disdain.
As if to wipe away the desolation
I cleaned it with my soft scarf I wore,
But the air, I felt, abided by my thoughts
And welted like the waves in a seashore.
I looked around- the room, the warm feeling
Nothing has painted any change!
But the mighty time takes you to the race
Even if you restraint not to climb the range.
Her worried face when I cried
Though I knew I’d be healed,
The cut was little but her heart-
A mother’s heart, we know, of what it is built!
Now the cuts seem no more delicate
And stitches are no more a shared toil,
But I know she would still be curious
For now I stand alone amidst turmoil.
Speaking the words I fail to recall,
Sketching the times I fall flat to draw,
This photograph will stitch my cuts
When I’ll be leaving tomorrow.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s