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An Empty Chair

“An Empty Chair” By  Pratiksha Misra From morning cereal, To an evening affair, What never was around, Was an empty chair.. From an angry state, To a cry for an extra bread to spare, What never was around, Was an empty chair.. From the fresh water fish, To the piping hot biryani, Served in a silver dish, From crying babies, To toddler care, From trying outs, To wedding outfits, What never was around, Was an empty chair.. From laughter roar, To midnight chuckles, From quieter score, To quilted giggles, From a spicy gravy, To sour taffy, From bitter to sweet, There was always dessert in the fridge, And a smiling nudge at the topmost layer, What never was around, Was an empty chair.. Now since you are gone, There is no winner at the dinner, No one asks what you would Like to eat, No one sits and repeats, How a dish tastes, It all ended too soon, How is that fair? That now instead of you, What we have is an empty chair.. *On this occassion of Thanksgiving, what my family craves for is ...

Eyes Unsaid

Those eyes stood unsaid.
Awfully misread.
Tactfully unfed.
Besides when they got wet.
I couldn’t say a word to let.
Them never to look at me.
Like before.
Those eyes were unheard.
Sometimes absurd.
Remorsefully bred.
Besides when they fought the fire.
I couldn’t just let out my desire.
To fall back in them.
Like before.
Those eyes were never the same.
As stories, they told.
Were often cold and brutal.
And as a ritual they foretold..
The yearnings were young and old.
Words just outspoke them.
Not to be blamed.
As they came out to be bold.
When closed they chose.
Not to oppose.
The dream of wanderers.
That paid homage to the cold.

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