The Bookkeeper

By Jigyasa Singh

the bookkeeper resides, in a idle void, such an ideal place for the "unemployed" sitting beside, a flickering spree light that runs back and forth, like a horse winding on its run and that one clock stuck on three it's true at your turn, some rooms were designed to sit and self scorn remembering this is all he is, all he could be

flipping an old binding, still makes the creaking sound as if some spirits are hiding — yet again in shady cracks and racks, even when they're supposed to stop being around he sews some pages, like molecules are bound tighter than a promise, stronger than his soul meant for the mundane, when his library is burned and old

withering, as he did riding on time humming from his memory, forgetful yet grasping rhymes this library shall fall sooner than anticipated, leaving what? a few hundred readers with a paper wasp sting.

rather rest and ought not to grieve for the living, than sit still and watch his precious library destroying, pages that were once soaring fluttering in the sky on land "the scream" following them sinking in the sand melting and flowing, away from their distinct wonderlands

yet,

the bookkeeper grabs a chair and lets the show play burrowing in his own hands at fires too ugly to be deserving of devouring the person here, more technically not him just the essence of his being and plans most people were terrible at seeing

the neighbors not know him enough to stop and ask "why did you give this up?" and assuming from the rumors, it is always a good deed to let madmen finish their tasks because didn't he do this himself? planted the seed lit a match, to let it succeed

when it struck five, they found the first arsonist to cover his house, observe and still survive

By Jigyasa Singh