one fine day
some termites decided to make a nest,
and the queen led them the way,
they found a cosy corner
in my beloved book shelf,
where my books were kept in an order,
by names of poets and authors,
to whom I referred to
day to day.
to my utter dismay,
my books were being eaten,
as they were their source of sustenance,
heart broken was I
as tears rolled down,
but I failed to wail at the sight,
for wrath had taken over
as I saw the extent of my disaster.
the collection on Keats was gone,
Browning laid half eaten,
Essays Of Elia was lost,
Baugh's philology succumbed to its fate,
Wordsworth was fully soiled,
for Paradise Lost:paradise was lost,
and in my mind was the urge to take revenge.
so I decided to kill,
every single one of them,
covering my face,
with the anti-termite spray.
as if it was a guerrilla fight,
here and there they ran,
up and down on my hand,
biting forcefully as I yelled in pain.
at last they were vanquished,
mercilessly as I killed
each one of them,
thousands laid dead,
including their queen
waiting for their doomed fate,
and a victory smile appeared on my face,
along with a tear of loss,
for my books on poetry were lost.
how can I decide who lost and who won
at the end...............