Sunday Poem By Debarati Sen

Childhood’s Spectre

The witching hour passes in a jiffy.
A cauldron of repressed torment purgates a blemished visitant.
The spectre of my harrowing past stood with open arms,
ready to devour me into its crater of debacle.
Your stinking touch still ravages my sanity.
Your stares defiled my vanity.
I was broken beyond measure!
My childhood wasn’t a treasure.
It turned to a curse,
Those days when existence was sombre interspersed.
Years passed and I struggled to breathe,
Your menacing laughter made my heart crease.
But you couldn’t dampen my vigor,
I collected my ruins and refurbished with rigor.
The light to my soul
enters through the crevice you had etched in my memory’s lane,
I reincarnated my spirit from a concoction of pain.