By Ria Godha
The ink heart of a reader is no less than a chamber of secrets.
Though it is not dragons that they slay,
But innate desires that they vicariously live,
To overcome their great regrets.
The divergent mind of a reader is allegiant only to the rustic pages.
Delving into the odyssey of imagination,
Liberating them from the shadows of the real world,
Where they find themselves in cages.
The twisted love of a reader,
For the characters’ giving,
Bearing sinful pride towards the fictional.
Their thoughts are often plagued,
With prejudice towards the living.
The world around them may wrestle,
With war and peace, with crime and punishment.
But the world inside their novels,
Knows no king of wrath nor pride,
Unparticipating in the game of thrones, as if in atonement.
Though it may seem lacking in sense and sensibility,
But the sorrow of a reader, as difficult to comprehend as it is to feel,
Often arises from the loss of what was never there.
And in such times, where the departures of the already dead shatter me,
I remind myself, “Of course it is happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”