Saturday, May 14, 2016

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem


I never tire of Saturdays
they come in a flash
disappear in a manner
that they are not forgotten.
They are vapid, but they
take me into dotted lines
whose circumference I measure
every week with acuity. Throwback
to memories Saturday chill these
pines in hills bring my mad wanderlust
to sanity.
I walk up to them as were a friend
scouring for lost ones, the school
and those impresarios on stage
crafting with guile words and actions.
Saturdays remain deadpan in my little
mind of events, cavernous, insatiable

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