Poetry

Often, 
I will return to myself, 
to meet a lost ancestor; 
exploring the statics― 
of the room, from where the journey 
had started. 
 
I will read your face in dark. The 
wrinkles, the broken teeth, 
and the foggy vision. 
 
The fire escape now lies bereft 
of trappings. There is a blank space 
there, sucking the sky. 
 
The pragmatism had taken over 
and I was left over with 
the figures in stones. 
 
I am trying to walk again 
deep into the woods. The time stands 
still. I am ready for an 
uncounter with unknown.