Sunday Poem By Pankhuri Sinha

Those who crept inside all talks

Those who crept inside all talks
Were not necessarily
Creeper like creatures
Creepers that came close
Wrapped around
Encircled
And bloomed
In fragrant bunches of color
In those very ornate things called flowers
No, some were complete parasites
Far away from anything
So organic
As a blooming flower
Or the entire structure
Of flowers blooming
The land, the soil
The roots, the creeper
And whatever it was
That it had crept on.
Was it a tree like talk
Was it a bush like talk
Was it a total mess?
Was it a total forest
Made up of a conversation?
What bloomed?
What perished?
Which colors spoke loudly?
Which colors had a fragrance?
What persisted?
What persevered?
What was so fleeting?
Momentary?
What’s everlasting
About momentary sparkles?
What made a promise
To last forever
Before being swallowed
By the dark?