“The quiet sense of something lost”
― Alfred Tennyson
I’m lost in the translation
wandering between the pages of a book
hiding between the folds
and sitting under a neatly folded
dog-eared page
waiting to be pulled
I’m surrounded by the pages
of my life
and left behind in the
stories untold
that old shattered spine
of that dusty book
mirrors my life
I fervently crave for that
intense fresh smell
we usually find
in the binds of book
so new
so naive
I crave for that smell
which lingers on my breath
and gushes the memories of life
I rushed to forget
I’m lost in the folds
and the missing pages
where my story took a break
and can be found
in those missing traces
That blotch of the ink
like a stain on my soul
hides the very essence of my life
devoured it whole
I’m lost in the translation
wandering between the pages
I have been sitting on the ledge
of that old dusty shelf
too long
waiting to be picked
and be smelled again.
I blog at Megha’s world
Photo by Laura Kapfer on Unsplash
Poet's Corner 