The Haunting
The trees stand undone
laced with winter dust
as the labourers hurry nonchalantly
on the makeshift ladder.
The bus takes people to purposed destinations
jerks and jolts notwithstanding,
The road that gets built and fills the air
with dust and smoke
will ever be built,
notwithstanding death and broken nests.
The thoughts linger around
a death and a loss
That gets forgotten in the daily humdrum
only to surface and resurface
in the unprepared moments.
Nobody ever dies of memories,
even of death of a mother.
One lives with that beloved face
haunting the unforeseen skies
where a sun sets in the afternoons
and night stretches late into the morning.
