A broken violin with splintered strings -
parts of a forgotten, fractured symphony
playing to an audience of the undead.
A defunct clock on a blistered wall
whose hands have long stopped ticking -
a grim metaphor for the relentless, sweeping scythe.
A moth-balled album with dog-eared pages
sneering at the smiles we once shared -
now, a mere addendum on sepia parchments.
A faded, blue decoupage vase
overgrown with weeds of woe and weal
languishing amidst a musty, floral potpourri.
Motley items gasping for breath in an antique chiffonier –
a sepulchre for the fragments of life…a cache of memories,
lost…stolen…wasted…blown away like grains of sand,
casting an umber hue on my autumnal heart.
Forever waiting to be bunched up and gift wrapped
in gossamer sheets of déjà vu and illusion,
and snail-mailed to my humble haunt
among the floating tendrils of cirrus clouds.
Author : Urmi Chakravorty
Urmi is a former educator and presently, a freelance writer, reviewer and editor based out of Bangalore, India. Her opinion pieces have been published in The Hindu and The Times of India. Her short stories, non-fiction, and poetry have found space in more than thirty domestic and international literary journals and anthologies, including Tell Me Your Story, Borderless Journal, Mean Pepper Vine, eShe, The Chakkar, Kitaab International, The Wise Owl and Women’s Web. Along the way, she has picked up accolades and awards instituted by Women’s Web, S7, TMYS, and Wordweavers.
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