THE WIND MY WIND

Every night, like a lullaby, every soulless word hurled at me sings in my mind.

- BY SOWMYA REDDY

A shelter less flower growing through the crack on the pavement and I are no different; the gusty wind and the imprudent passersby are its perpetrators, and the soulless words are my perpetrators.

Both of us are trampled and left to wither. I try to shove these thoughts away by averting my gaze at the night sky from the windowpane. Tonight's sky is contrary to my mind; knot less and spotless.

Yet, these whispers impersonate my shadow accompanying me to eternity.

They gradually grow into echoes and then into visages.