​No, he didn’t quite know
To weave poems himself
But there were books
Lines marked and written
Whose ink now fade
In letters never posted.

Calendars on that wall
And dates circled for years
That he waited for her
Crumpled letters scattered
All started none complete
And a dry fountain pen.

It still rains outside
As I walk through the dust
To meet a love like none
In the wait of calendars
In letters of silent despair
And a pen dry of hope.

© Arindam Dey


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

A WordPress.com Website.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: