“Did we just skip Sunday?”
asked the student with a sigh.
The teacher replied sweetly,
“Looks like the chances are very high.
Stop mourning Monday mornings…
See a new day – a new month has begun.
Pull up your socks and get ready
Its time to chase the sun!”
There’s something about dilapidated buildings,
the forgotten inhabitants and era.
The cracks spreading its roots like branches.
Tales of lost time, traditions and terra.
What grandeur it must have possessed?
Who lived within those red brick walls?
Just huge portraits are all that’s left.
No defense works when tragedy befalls.
Those who trudged on the long corridors,
carrying the burden of power or sin.
The women of the Manor veiled from the world,
peeping through the blinds- hiding their chagrin.
The Red Manor stands tall- its expanse mum.
Haunted by forgotten tales and tourist humdrum.
Quietly witnessing the passage of time.
Bearing the remnants of a beauty sublime.
I’ve been asked why I write sad poetry,
Never been asked what makes me sad.
Why don’t all lines end in perfect symmetry?
Blank verse is incomplete, boring and bad.
I’ve been judged for my plain appearance.
What colour am I ? I’m brown with specks of black.
I’m fat – that’s acknowledgement of my existence.
Hypocrites think I’m just another joke to crack.
Perhaps I’m an old dusty book in a forgotten library,
Yellow with age, stained and a little moth eaten.
My words sound either fictional or too real and scary.
Emotionally manipulated and seldom mentally beaten.
I’ve been asked why I’m silent, cold and lonely.
No, your love doesn’t fill the cracks in my heart.
For I know what you crave – Alas! Just half of me.
And I’m not just flesh and bones – I’m a spiral work of art.