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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 ...

There's not much

There’s not much for me..
As I could see.
Only the waves that left ashore..
Tides preceded to end it’s roar.
There’s not much for me..
As words felt blank.
Only by the grave to be rest assure..
Tears fled to bend the choir.
There’s not much for me..
But a glance next door..
At the forever friendly lad..
Who said you finally spoke I am glad.
There’s not much for me..
Only madness in store..
To keep breathing insecure..
While gripping on to a stranger feels pure.
There not much for me..
Only a tiny bird that sings in love..
Squeaked by a squirrel..
Get over it you aren’t visible as a dove.
There’s not much for me..
Only drizzles thundering rain clouds..
Distant giggles murmuring doubts..
That instantly might lead myself to fame.
Peeping through holes ..
Akwardly pronouncing my name.
There’s not much for me..
Since that life is gone..
When troubled by the stone..
Aimed it to break the river bone.
There’s not much for me..
A road driving home..
Keys unlocking storms..
Wrestling to open clogged up drains.
There’s not much for me..
Only stars that are somewhere outside.
Too far to catch them anyway..
Figurative forms of defining the milky way.
As night swallow the inside.
There’s not much for me..
But the whole sea..
Staring up to me..
While I embrace my face..
That got ignored for too long.
There’s not much for me..
Now I can’t make believe how..
It’s me who stands and talks..
It’s me who gets up and walks…
Stop pretending to be the shadow that stalks..
There’s a whole lot of me…
When you run into mornings..
While darkness lurks.

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