Untitled Poem # 18…

by Talha Minhas

It rained…
And I feel so small.
So much that my chair has grown,
like it is passionate…
to have borrowed the life.
And it is not just furniture;
but writes memoirs of his boredom.
And I am unable to inspire…
Or even make a sound.

He begins to think about the mysteries
that were ever so meaningless.
He makes symbols,
while I just sit in a corner.

I wonder what he would feel
when he buys himself a drink.
Would it taste so bitter,
Or would he feel the chill in the air?
I don’t know.
But…
he may…

While I blamed my ancestors,
perhaps, he would not betray.

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