End Station

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This isn’t a Harry Potter story
Or of some lovers sharing glory
I opened my phone, utters some voice
You said, where are you now?
But the calling time’s maximized,
So I clicked the red button.
The train driver had notified:
Taft Avenue, this is the end station.
I looked outside, sunset starts
And the clouds on the opposite side
Filled the skies with gloomy shade
I phoned you back again
Saying, wait for me there
You dropped the call; shocked to see me
As if I were a ghost, or a mystical wannabe
Our eyes interlocked, moments froze
We met by the rusty escalator
But with you, tightly holding a girl’s hand
Like I expected, she’s of beauty
Her posture’s great, complexion dominates.
Uttering a word, you cannot do.
She said, do you know each other?
You said no, so pain stabs me
We both nodded, but I was doomed
Then the rain heavily falls, shouts in thunders.
We both parted ways, soon after
All the rainbows slowly fade
At that transit’s end station.


In TransitPhoto from Flickr. Poetry by Sueju Takeshi.

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10 thoughts on “End Station

  1. Pingback: Transiting | It's Mayur Remember?

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