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Ekphrasis Photo Prompt Poem-Death Poem-Kolkata Poem-Random Thoughts

Neigh

The old horse neigh echoing the oldness of the alley where it was sheltered–

A destitute building with ferns and mosses, grown freshly last monsoon, and now multicolored;

An owner who has no one to look after him; a room he lives broken with seasonal winds and–

Breeze waltzing through the broken window pane–located overlooking his chest.

There was a door to the room of prestigious mahogany wood, but, thief had stolen it long ago.

The old horse neigh resonating the broken cough of the owner of the shelter, again.

The old man, whose beard had grown monsoon-moss colored green,–

And the eyes have got buried in the hole with the mouth being dead brown–

Lying on the bed like a skin of a snake–skeletal and all, is not the owner of the horse.

The horse, old and worn, tired and proud, neigh again to the brontide or–

Was it another building crumbling down in the storm, first one of spring welcoming summer.

His forehead over the bridge of nose till the throat latch were visible, though, with effort.

The strangler figs had strangled him long ago before the owner of the house passed away–

Few weeks ago, when there was a rain and he, the horse, neigh at top of his voice.

There were no one to feed the owner of the house, there were no one to feed the horse.

But, still it survives as the spirit of the night rode him through the alley of the oldest part–

Of the city, and let him feed on the soul they met on their rides.

The dead man was not his owner–the horse neigh again as lighting strikes and–

Drizzle started–he was his rider only who know how to use him to gather money–

For his gamble games and whores and drinks.

The horse neigh resonating the oldness of the shelter; the spirit will not come he lest know of it.

His call, repeated ones, mocking the old owner’s cough. The green of the fig dripping down–

Over his faint mane making him green–a fresh coat over the pale brown one.

A building broken down somewhere in the alley; somewhere a window was thud loud.

The horse neigh as the fig strangle him to hush him; the rain splash on the moss grown chest–

Of the dead man.

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P.S. This is an Ekphrasis inspired by the painting shared at Ronovanwrites for Guess That Art III

Categories
Bikurgurl Micro Fiction Photo Prompt

Beside You [100-Word]

“Hey hon, do you remember that picture…the picture you had shown me last week at the doctor’s chamber…the one from the travel magazine…a man and a woman standing by the Lake…what was it name…the name was…”

“Hush…doctor had said to be quiet…don’t stress yourself…and I do remember the picture…but, not the name of the Lake…”

“We’ll go there…after the discharge from here…”

“Whom are you talking to…”

“To…where did he go…”

“Hon, I’m long gone…and I’m waiting by the Lake…not that one…but, the one we met…fifty-five years ago…in Kashmir…”

“Time for medicine, Ma’am…attagirl…now sleep…”

“Hon, sleep…now…I’m here…just beside you…see…”

For Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday Week 112
Categories
Micro Fiction Three Line Tales Uncategorized

Smile [100-Word]

I opened my wallet for tenth time or eleventh–I’ve lost count; there are not much there. The rumor was true now it seems; the market crashed and many are kicked out; when I’ll be paid my salary or whether it will happen sooner, no surety of it. I had called her telling I’ll be late, and now I am sitting here and looking at that mocking sign; no gift for her on the first anniversary–no it couldn’t happen; I surpassed the urge of looking into the wallet again, and walked towards the store–anything for her that smile.

For Sonya’s Three Line Tales, Week 163

Categories
Micro Fiction Photo Prompt Sue Vincent

Freedom or Not [100-Word]

The night was full moon as it was…is it “would be” a century ago or few years ago, or, is it “will”…I couldn’t decipher the point of the time I had looked at that transparent sign of the house–the wizard hat in the square fixed to a pole–last time…it couldn’t be the future because present give birth to future…but, the question I want answered to is what era or what century is this…am I back to my time or am I still lost in swirl of the time…am I still cursed for loving the wizard’s wife…when I’m at…

For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt, 14th March 2019

Categories
Bikurgurl Micro Fiction

At the Top of an Obelisk [A Flash Fiction]