left with me, an old worn out novel,
he gave me for a reading,
I returned back one of my own
by an oversight, and thus I carry
his fingerprints ingrained in the words,
that whirl their wings inside my head,
vying through my voice, feeding me
with sweetening and tart rudiments
of the narrative,
.
when I glance at the first leaf,
I discover his mother’s forename
penned carefully, it belonged to her
and I trace (whom I’ve never met)
her trail, in smears of her sweat
as she must have turned the pages,
levying her ownership on the print,
that being possessed by me now,
I feel a thief
.
A simple piece for dVerse Meeting the Bar. I had earlier added a further two lines, but for me, the end this way holds more meaning.
HA's Place 