My Lost Story Poem by arsmitha khanna

Promises as the count of stars,
And as dark as the den,
Stand still, like the dried scum
Over the tea glass on my table;
Crushed papers garland my floor,
And they move to and fro,
To the periodic gusts of the slow turning fan;
The four walls around me pictures memories,
Which my eyes don't see but my tears'
Suddenly I turn my head towards the window,
Oh yeah! The only dramatic bridge to the moon,
In moon I see nothing,
But the round vague face
Of the known unknown,
Now my hair curls up more than before at a faster rate,
Pulling my attention back to the papers again;
Unspoken words flood my paper,
And I lie on its side,
Like-
A fish on shore,
A kite on a pond,
A fly on the fire,
Burning all my way to salvation...!
But obvious enough,
Winters promise summers,
Rains promise sunshine,
Buds promise flowers,
Cocoons promise butterflies,
Every map promises a destination,
And every question a reply,
So does life promises a story,
sour or ripe'
Says so, this storyteller,
Through her LOST STORY'! ! !