The Hearth Of Grief

By Purti Sharma

“Stay.”

“Please.”

I don’t even know who it is that I am begging

But seems to me only my grief can hear my desperate plea.

So it stays, and stays, and makes a home out of me,

A home- with a cavernous fireplace to burn my soul over

A home with a blue-tiled kitchen to brew the most painful musings

A home with a glass window, framed by a golden gleam

Which lets the feathery laughter in with a twirling breeze

Just so it could leave, the oak door unhinged open.

The isolation parasitizes its way into the gleeful moments,

Tainting them, dipping them in nude shades of grey,

Leaving them to hang there, over the flickering flames of the candles

Of the overheard chandelier,

Roughly eaten at the edges.

Who am I asking to stay, I know not,

So I say my thanks to the only thing that does,

Greif-loyal to a fault.

By Purti Sharma