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An Empty Chair

“An Empty Chair” By  Pratiksha Misra From morning cereal, To an evening affair, What never was around, Was an empty chair.. From an angry state, To a cry for an extra bread to spare, What never was around, Was an empty chair.. From the fresh water fish, To the piping hot biryani, Served in a silver dish, From crying babies, To toddler care, From trying outs, To wedding outfits, What never was around, Was an empty chair.. From laughter roar, To midnight chuckles, From quieter score, To quilted giggles, From a spicy gravy, To sour taffy, From bitter to sweet, There was always dessert in the fridge, And a smiling nudge at the topmost layer, What never was around, Was an empty chair.. Now since you are gone, There is no winner at the dinner, No one asks what you would Like to eat, No one sits and repeats, How a dish tastes, It all ended too soon, How is that fair? That now instead of you, What we have is an empty chair.. *On this occassion of Thanksgiving, what my family craves for is ...

Cry

It’s all a lie..
But why.
Cry.
What starts ends.
What breaks mends.
What seems impossible comprehends.
The face that smiles fades..
The face that hurts trades..
The eyes that meant ran into a cascade.
Revolt rises to subside.
Jolt ceases to reside.
Bolted doors open to showcase empty corridors.
It’s never too late to find those unsaid words.
It’s too early to assume those words will ever be heard.
It’s too easy to give up on the irony of being absurd.
It’s nothing but a sigh..

But why..
Cry.
What holds leaves.
What goes two folds decieves.
What annoys receives..
What was untold believes.
The wrapped up heart..
The charred up mark.
The scar within..
An unknown spark.
Tears are bold..
Riding cold into the slippery eyes.
Failed attempt to wait until they imitate a false state.
It’s a hunger of an imaginary kind.
An anger of a foolish mind.

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