Page 86 - Musings 2020
P. 86
The Last Poem
Ishan Mangotra 2017B5A80903P
When they found the last poem left
They ripped it out from under the debris,
Its body beaten into a water
Its mind crushed beyond reparation,
When they saved the last poem left
They didn’t know what to do with it.
What would they call it
Now that no name seemed fit?
With its lineage unknown, its faith indefinite,
Where would they place it,
This frail body that doesn’t know a god
But carries annihilated prophecies for a heart.
You see it now and then
Floating down alleys of the city’s old gardens,
Mistaking trees for bones and sticking its flesh to them.
You feel bad for it and want to give it a home,
But how do you save someone
Who has been saved before?
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