By Shreya Bakshi
I
Strolling through the graveyard
Traversing the mushy road,
I inhaled the petrichor-
Not squandering a breath,
I nostalgically devour
The taste of wind as I long for more.
As I walk by, I reckon the past;
Tearlessly weeping
Lamenting lost sand from the hourglass.
I behold at the churchyard and slightly recline
As I sense the road’s steep decline.
Nevertheless, I forge ahead
To capture glimpse of orderly deaths-
One gilded with the name of a child,
The other of an unmarried bride,
The penultimate grave was a shrine
And next to it, laid mine.
A tear dampened the mud under my tombstone,
I knelt down to touch it.
Reliving the evanescent memories-
My grave, crushed it.
The milestones I had arrived at were real,
My tombstone, surreal.
Milestones have let me down,
For they represent loss-
Tombstones are real,
Yet I crave taste of loss.
I was to have an endless journey,
The tombstone ended it, prematurely.
I long to reunite with life,
In the garb of relentless rain-
A pluviophile.