You see my vintage phone
sitting on the desk, dust settling
it doesn’t ring anymore,
still as 12 am. clock strikes silence over head.
And the curtains on the walls immovable,
the threads are lifeless now
yet reflects the shadows of bygones.
The quietude takes me
to an abandoned land of dead flowers, rotten.

You see my vintage necklace
twirling around my neck
and embellishing my skin of tanned feather,
it glows in daylight and sparkles in moonlight.

I am in a scrutiny since long
regarding this provoking quietness hovering
inside my conscience,
which clips to my skin, and hangs into my soul.


By Shreya Sharma

I read poems. Sometimes I write poems. And when I am doing nothing, I am sipping coffee.


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