By Shlaghya Mishra
There is commotion-
a lot of commotion.
Lorry drivers in the frontal lobe
have their unusual day.
They are trucking across words
from different dictionaries
of Wordsmith's ink smudged house.
It's to the weavers
living near the parietal ends
who are accepted to receive
the delivery of words-
swelled with emotions and sense,
indigenous to only these lettered clan.
The weavers play with threads,
they sew the words in fashion
colloquial to only Wordsmith's head.
Their command on needle
is remarkable in the valley-
sound of scissors and words
getting cut and chopped and fixed.
Ruckus of phrasal designers,
and tumult of simile and metaphors.
Tailors of alliteration
setting in back and forth the sewing machine,
eying for the design
that would fit well poetically
when the Reed would bring down
these sounds on Paper's raw body.
Their imagination spinning a sense of pride
while their fingers tuning the color scheme.
And then, a sudden hunt for a title-
a hoax or something real and fresh and hitting less?
Not something to be easily toiled with.
It's a brand name honoring efforts
of thousand lettered men.
At a conjunctive tick of clock,
title scratched scrivener's head.
She erased and thought,
and wrote it again.
Perplexed.
Twitched.
Unrest.
And reading chime.
Pen head's lips tight and anxious mind,
and continuous honking,
if it fits fine?