The poem waits
bedraggled neglected
gasping on the cobbled street
trampled on by thousand feet everyday
The poem waits
sighing dreaming
alone in a half-lit room
amidst discarded pieces of clothing
strewn about on the floor
a table lamp trying to reach out
to the ceiling almost beyond its reach
The poem orphaned
weeps with the stars up in the sky
wafting in the air
like a long lost spirit
waiting
to find a corpus tangible
Destiny Poets
Uniting and celebrating the best "Writers" and "Poetry" from around the world centred out of Destiny Church Wakefield
Mordant and not a little baleful , the Borges-like object/subject of Madhumita’s poem is the poem. It conjured up for me a black and white image of a deserted hotel room and the whirring of the ceiling fan.