The Last Leg - Poem by Ajit Das
They say poetry dwells
in the lap of solitude:
a productive loneliness.
The mind is poised to soar
over the edges of clouds
to pour out its pain and joy.
But sequestered moments
tumble into shuffling hours,
and long, weary days drag on.
Like soot-fall the dark descends
on the desolate tract, light yet
glinting at the end of the tunnel.
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