on the table,
the table-where heaps of paper lies
amidst unknown poetry
and if you run your fingers
on the rims of the decorative corners
you will feel dirt
and may be a part of the pain
of those unknown poetry.
He was never a super star,
never aspired to be one,
he was a commoner
like you and me
but
different,
how?
don't ask me that.
the rusted locket that resembles
a skull,
is a heirloom now
that once belonged to him
and now to me
lies there in a box
of unhindered treasure.
The rust,the dirt
the unknown poetry
are blank spaces that
he lived once,
but
all is now a black sheet.
I tried to scribble something
but amidst the
unknown poetry
I am just an unknown monosyllable...
