My factory has been lying sealed
since days,
no weeks,
months now…
The words have gone on for a fall out
picketing away in the heat of the night
Leaving me
poetryrupt.
Turning on the pages of accounts
Not a line turned over,
Wordless yard stretching yellow brown
Sinking in my own torrent,
not a little courage let out
the old lock,
on my half shredded diary
makes me feel little awry.
46 clicks, and
I am on
churning
alphabets after alphabets.
smelling, oiling, packaging them
my fingers chore,
tooling for a centless reward
what the mill so long reaped
Poetry baby steps
in the wee hour
praying, I close my eyes
seconds later
out of the window, Monday cries.
