This poem was published in The Wise Owl litmag in December, 2024.

 

The chipped raw wood door to my heart

lies bolted with a rusted lock.

I peep in through its cracks and crevices –

a dank, musty whiff greets me

with vignettes of long forgotten moments

gnawing at its soft, spongy panels,

burrowing through the layers

of an all-pervading oblivion

to follow a breadcrumb trail of days gone by

when love was young and the heart, naïve.

 

Was it perfidy? Or an impasse, that shut

and soldered the door tight,

locking in the echoes of an obliterated youth

within its shrouded nooks and niches;

languishing and wilting like flecked, fetid shrooms –

unhallowed umbrellas sprouting on the

chipped raw wood door to my heart.

 

P.C. Kinjal Salvi on Unsplash