Fighting its way into all of my crevices,
the laden wind started a resistance against me.
Three hours later, the news had packaged itself
into dank breeze coming in through the window,
on a stifling day. Three days later,
an urn overturned and his existence was measured in a
uniform mound of ashes.
Left behind on the shore:
a house without a roof, and rubble scattered everywhere,
roll call with silence on the third,
a dog with no one to feed him leftovers,
and a body with no one home.
On a day of cremation, the entry ticket is salt water.
That nimble wind blows with an ulterior motive now
onto a different trajectory.
I don’t believe in a higher power.
Yet, if their words could be drawn into shapes,
GOD would be a trophy
designed by calligraphers.
Winners are winners of rules,
The prizes, made by man:
Still, their trophies are plastic.
Force curves into squares,
Radiate into unforeseen niches
that were once full but now lay bare.
Life is the only
Dhruba Biswas is a current student at Boston University, in the College of Arts and Sciences. She is an avid classical music aficionado, and apart from studying chemistry all day and skimming through textbooks, she enjoys reading mystery novels and drinking various teas. Her interest in poetry began in middle school, and since then, her appreciation has expanded to all types of writing.