An Audience with the Author Through a Letter

Out, over the bridge, almost numb in chest

Like butterflies caught breathing in cold, harsh winter morning

Dogged by a rhyme that shelters braids and locks;

Cajoled by the air to scramble, laid in ocean’s tears,

We riddled ourselves into oblivion, masked and made of icicles

Like having been in the open too early – the little children in for a treat

 
The wares denied a debt to deliver, written in the book of income

We had ourselves to ourselves, and no one screamed louder

As all were alike in their own surprise, making wishes off transistors.

In the outcry of having discovered a route rooted in the garden

We benched our backs into a hunch, as we harked to the eagle’s whistle;

Or was it a voice in our heads, trying to get our attention.

 
We paid the dear postman his due, and out we read a letter not too soon.

It was blue ink winking its words to our eyes, as we huddled together

And we had a bottle of our own colours, thrown one, two, three, all one forever

It was hour’s way of wading in a secret, waiting for the door to hinge open

Out we laid in the blossoms, even with our odds

Like letters missing yet words brimming – sense scurrying water

© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017

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 )

Twitter picture

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

Facebook photo

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

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s