Pocket

By Shreya

The road that runs parallel,

That place I never could travel.

Folks I never could meet,

Mornings I never could greet.

Those paths I never tread,

Those books I never read.

Those feelings I never said,

Those tears I never shed.

Amidst a fret of regret,

I earn my daily bread.

Read, unread, said, unsaid—

Verses woven with thread.

Pocketed in a page,

Lie some lived, unlived days.

By Shreya