My Suitcase

My Suitcase prose poem

Photo by chispita_666 

A big red box, my suitcase, tucked under my bed.
Is the box merely a box? No, I’m afraid.

Bearing throws, bearing blows, bearing scratches, sporting patches.
Generously forgiving, my wheeled travel companion, emerging to unite with me on the conveyor belt.
Passing through dark x-rays, scans and scrutiny, yet preserving my harmless secrets.

Impregnated by elements of my identity, without which I’m bare,
Stacked with my casual wear, party wear, foot wear and my inner wear.
Along with my gadgets and my books, my paper pad and my pen,
My big red box with a hanging tag, bearing my name.

My friend familiar in unknown land, stuffed with my memories and possessions grand.
My big red box is not merely a box,
But a collage of myself, at the reach of my hand.

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7 Comments on "My Suitcase"

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asoke kumar mitra

beautiful write. the subject line is very new and the style of expression is very different.


An innovative thought, I say! A suitcase as a carrier of our memories, as a friend! Precious!

Lakhan Mal

Great use of Personification. Imagination Level to it’s extreme. Like to read more like this.


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