Postcard

I was pressing the buttons as the box was on. A big sound it was the postman so the taxes needs paying. A sign of a letter opening it up slowly seeing the story unfold. Past, which haunted her finally, ended with final rights. A tradition saw a journey from London to homeland. Ink pen writing seems like handprints that have been stamped. I imagined the picture through the letter looking at me. I was eating the piece of Indian bread with nothing else on the plate. I took my belongings yet they vanished from within. She who holds the keyhole to the palace must enter. A slip of a sound the pavement weeps fearless journey. A sound echoing in my ear motherland of mine here I come. Plastic cords holding in place look I have been cleaned up. Bullet holes opening gather all together. I came to see a broken up soul what happened while I left? I am the visitor oh creator forgive me did I come late? (Fact-based poem. This one is close to my heart)