Bits of torn paper
Frolicking around
Here and there
Not really anywhere.
Arrives the villain
Broom in hand
Down it is flung
Into the bin.
It lies inert
Freedom clipped
Sad at heart
Yet nothing it did.
Gazed at me
In visible scorn
As if to convey
A message inborn
You trashed a gem
A masterpiece
Of literary value
But now lying glum.
Arrange me in order
Read me at leisure
And mould me
As your prize winner.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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