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)
Copyright © Rajesh Sharma | Year Posted 2006
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