Dead

By Bristi Parvin

In the hush of the graveyard’s silence

A voice resounds from a cracked casket

Long ago, someone entombed itself

Where lies a bunch of parchments 

waiting for someone to hold them again

waiting for that poet who took its last breath,

And buried its soul with its own hand in death,

That person still walks among the living,

Spending life like a corpse, unforgiving

That dead poet,

Who lies in those Old, dusty pages, worn by time 

With ink splashed on it like crimson bloodline 

Its words Scattered, entwined with someone’s soul

A broken rhythm, whispering tales of a heart’s fall

By Bristi Parvin