Old and withered

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Old and withered,

yet there remains something unfigured

Losing all notions

what is left of my emotions

Is it time to go ?

It is already ‘a long time ago’?

Why I am stunned?

For me, there is no pension fund

Is it the fear

to not be remembered?

Questioning my existence

I am feeling this resistance.

When lived as a unique identity

now why this attachment of terrenity?

No legacy, not even a name,

No one to make a claim.

May be it is the end of the game

but here, it all remains the same.

So why do I still stand here?

Am I waiting for a Shakespeare,

who will write on the stages of my life?

Look at that purple loosestrife

to whom I provide a shelter

hoping this purity can melt her.

I am to my mother, the nature

A little tree in her portraiture.

 

[ A random thought that occurred to me last weekend, while taking a stroll. Thanks to Rini, for she helps me express my emotions in poetic form sometimes.]

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(Picture Credits: Avinash Kumar)

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