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Charismatic countenance,

she stirred her sack of memoirs, throbbed her veins

hammered,bored but all in vain…

Oh! She pondered .. He was that stranger with the roses

Who use to bow down to her, on the stairs of a public library,

and again a black curtain drops off,Self disdain…

Struggle restarts to whip the gray matter

Churned a lot , a lot re thought..

Never she  gabbled with him, yet waylaid for Roses,

de perfecto routine within clocked hours…

Aah!! away it  fades,again she was in a typical maze

but what happened to the stranger?she could not remember,

creeped in the same grief,into vapours her belief….

Asudden the doorbell rings,

The stranger with the roses, pings…

He smiled the way, he smiled the first day

hugged her ,kissed her …Red Roses for you,My dear…

No traces of flashback,

impervious was the redemption from oblivion ,

Who are you ?She asked quizzically..

He said “I am your husband ” not a stranger anymore..

Rehashing this line was his daily chores

He is a stranger for her from the moment

her head collided , her memory bleached…

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

The poem is shared with dverse Open Link Night

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