Monosyllable

The hip flask still lies

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...