By
Kamalika Bhattacharya
Laughter resounds,
from trees swaying in whispers,
from skies adorned with fleeting clouds,
from flowers in their mocking bloom.
Even the books we read together,
and the poems we birthed in unity,
join the cruel chorus.
The old calendar, frozen on the wall,
shows not just dates, but scars.
Morning sneers,
afternoon chuckles in scorn,
evening scoffs,
and night—a relentless jester.
My reflection? A derisive grin.
The songs I once hummed?
Now bitter tunes of ridicule.
I shut my ears,
but their mirth seeps through,
sharp as thorns,
piercing every sanctuary.
Like a prisoner of my own intent,
I sought not solitude,
but a companion—a smile.
No harm was meant.
Yet the echoes grow fierce,
“Naive,” they jeer,
“You wove a trap,
but they saw through the threads,
and soared to skies beyond your reach.”
Am I a fool? Perhaps.
I offered love,
pure and untainted.
“Love?” they laugh again,
turning its sanctity to ash.
“A tether too frail,
a path long forsaken.”
Now I cry, and cry, and cry,
my dreams lie limp, cold in the wind,
their gaping void a mirror to my hollow heart.
After the stormy night, everything feels cool,
yet I stand like a ruined garden—once beautiful,
now stripped bare, its blossoms scattered in the wind,
leaving me hollow,
yet somehow still beating.
🍂
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