-Rajesh K. Jha
I see the dust rising
from the hooves of time,
setting on the tender grass ahead of me,
sky turning into a blotch of faded orange like
Monet’s Impression sunrise.
I gather jasmine, roses and bougainvillea,
string a handcuff for you.
But prisoners are wont to escape,
they can kill and sometimes commit suicide,
with the Pajama string or shards from a cup,
lying broken and unused in the corner.
Life is as unpoetic and absurd,
as the lines I write,
but I still love it,
waiting for the prisoner to escape,
and the sound of the hooves to fade.