Poem: The Unread History

When we think of the past, we carry our memories, regrets, denials, and dreams forward. Those which had come out as verses still are out there, and so are the dried ink and the weary quill.

I am dedicating this poem to those who have denied their real dreams and missed their chances.

Poem: The Unread History

I have let the ink dry
The quill is still stained red
The wear on the quill
Speak tales of its journey
The curves and pauses
That turned into verses
Turning thoughts soaked in
Sea of tears like waterfalls
Oceans of blood spurting
Like a volcano of my broken heart
Somewhere, like —
the stains and the scars on my quill
The indelible imprints of those verses
Remain immortal in silence
They will speak when they read
The stories of their dreams
Unbridled wishes of a child
Unleashed without strings
Not as an investment in the future
But, history is crazy, even weird
There are still these stories unread
Of regrets and missed chances
Of denials of those little dreams
The dried ink and the weary quill
Is all that remains with us.

~Ashok Subramanian © 2024