The Blank String

Family along the streets.

Just a few bodies live together in a hole,a burrow in a space of cement concrete.
Pigeons that return on beaks of worms,gophers in their holes of common space.
Exploring life,sharing its outer darkness,as the sky hangs in balance,tautly held.

Our children eat porridge off our hands, we are their white walls,with nail-holes.
Their clothes are hung in our blankness.

Old man stare at ceilings,under the stairs,sagging cots bring them closer to the earth.
Away from the overhanging sky of the roof.
Just a few bodies that return to the earth,one by one noting each other’s presence.

Salvaged pastels,
Make up a chalky wraith,swaying and sighing,from day to day and night to night.

Dust filled drops
Frozen on the cheeks,lacklustre and void of roses,petals fallen like crumbled ash.

Pools of Black Death
Afraid and burned by light,no longer dilating or rippling,standing still in time .

No more visitors of Life Only sights of a ghost prison,gray buildings,and empty avenues.

The broken,the lifeless,the angry,the wraith that walk along the streets.

Along the streets.
Along the streets.


© The Honest Fabler– Pooja Mukherjee
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