The unread

I wrote poems on the walls of silence
While staring into the darkness of the nights
I wrote poems with the brooms,
While cleaning, on the dusty floor
I wrote poems on the sticky plates
While scrubbing and washing
I wrote poems with a knife on the vegetables
While cutting them for avial and sambar
I wrote poems on the sky’s pale face
While I sat indifferently, staring at it,
Like another sky that exists just as an illusion
I wrote poems with tears which were
Rerouted inwardly, on the broken-wall of dreams
Lo!, Aren’t I writing a poem, an epic one,
By living, while trekking the hills of life,
While crossing the daily hurdles,
While treading the rugged path aimlessly,
And while I and the poem are no more two?
Aren’t I writing a poem with this life
On the empty pages of time,
Which shall remain incomplete, forever,
Even after the enormous writing, with no eyes
To find it or identify it.
One of the billion poems unread!

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