On an wintry night
That looked deep and dark
The sleepy streets disturbed
With stray dogs that bark
Louder as if an ominous knell
To the inmates snorting in couch
The last breath he draws
Nobody sense but the spooky night
That perturbs no sleep
Only peeps the secret fall.

Amid the books in dusty shelf
A nagging worm makes a daily meal
From the yellow pages
Each word he lovingly penned
His only living soul
Which earned him no fame.
Even not his mourning wife
Who loves him so warm
Aware of his poetic pen
That lies motionless as he is.

Moloy Bhattacharya

Copyright © Moloy Bhattacharya

Moloy Bhattacharya is on facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/moloy.bhattacharya

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