The Writers Voice
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From Illusion to Reality
She was walking on the footpath uneven,
The tiles, at places, jagged and broken
Making the pedestrians walk with care
Stuffed in her head a question not fair.
Meandering not to knock a sleeping beggar
With a battered bowl, a skeleton road keeper,
Was he dead or alive? she could not guess,
And she? Being alive meant not feeling helpless.
Her husband, pot-bellied, balding bully, a bull
Bulling like a bullfrog walking ahead in blue
Halting, looking back to measure the gap,
The gap would never close in to good shape.
She thought of their congenial intimacy
Seven years back, love affair, pregnancy.
They entered a shop to buy the grocery.
She saw a kid’s picture on a pad of nappy.
Death of their son, mockery of her love,
The unfaithfulness of her idiotic cove.
The shopkeeper’s son was on the phone:
“Is there any point to carry it further on?”
“I will be going to USA for three years at least
Want to be free and have fun, can’t commit.”
Her heart went on the other side of the phone
Her inner voice spoke to her in different tone.
Outside the moon shimmered on a clear summer
Her eyes shone with a clear determined glimmer
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