Poetry Flies Its Hem

by Kingshuk Chakraborty

I may break

But never turn into dust.

Sun-soaked day like a seagull

Glides with a cruising ship

Crosses a long way

With ease.

Amidst waves, unaware

When the tired evening descends

At port

They too anchor themselves

But in two different worlds,

Where at chirping of the bird

The indifferent mast

Doesn’t unfurl the sail.

Where does it keep its eyes,

At which Sirius?

Amassing words later,

Die at silent grave

Facing the night.

In wakefulness amidst stars

Cringed memories

Break me down

Yet I don’t turn into dust.

Desolated at the shore

Of a lonely island

Holding words on my chest

I tie an ocean

Where poetry flies its hem.

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