Queen Page

Queen Page long poem

Photo by Horia Varlan

She doesn’t look like much
White,flat and pale on a ghostly scale
Nothing mesmerising to touch
But without her consent I can tell no tale.

She is proud of her spotless white shroud
This picky princess seldom settles
For wearing worthy words upon her cloud.
‘I’d rather be naked,not hated!’ Is her mettle.

I was a poor weaver of poorer words
My mind so old it could no longer hold
The vast stretch of my sewn up told
So I tricked her majesty to wear my words.

“Dignified in her silent demeanor,
She needs no rusty old weaver!
Let her lay out for the limitless to see
Her majesty, parallels the infinite sea”

Aloud I said these lines licked in lies,
Queen Page inched toward my index in reply
Eagerly I scrawled but the Queen knew
The Words on her were a world of new.

For when I stopped to see the sewn syllables
they had been swept from the tables.
My jaw dropped at the renewed whiteness
Queen page had drunk them to emptyness.

Years later, I still have to please her
An ode or a verse solely for her pleasure.
And only much later, will the ink for my tale
be let to stay, peppering her precious pale.

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prabitha balasubramanian

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A law student by day and an amateur writer a bit later in the day. Disclaimer : I am not particularly scholarly to be considered a poet. My poems are mostly still in the TRY part of poetry. And with that sad observation I hope to post and improve my writing. Why I do it: Sometimes I find the soothing rhythm of poetry somewhat simplifies a complexity and is the perfect way to unwind and undo those knots. So as long as my head gets knotty, my refuge will lie in poetry.
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