Sunday Poetry By Neha Borah

The Gallivanter

We read several stories of several kind,
some are residing in the heart of an ocean
while some are hiding beneath the mountain.
We read them, comprehend and swallow
the thrill, the pity, the joy, the sorrow.
The first cry or the mournful departure,
we saunter through every road of the Maurer.
The freshly delineated path that has been travelled before
be it crooked, twisted or gore.
While holding hands with the protagonist,
we momentarily lurk
for clues, for empathy, the perk.
As we finally prepare to veneer the tale
a part of us stays right there
underneath the folded sheets
while the other part declines to accept the bittersweet
“We just get to be one story.
We just get to play one character of our own”