I linger on all minds,
favourite abode is of a student’s.
I wait in between the pages
of one’s new geometry book
I lie within the words, especially synonyms
to greet the writers too.
Science and arts, I am there for both
I don’t discriminate between the two.
I am used, no wait,
exploited indeed, as an excuse always.
Numberless blames feed on my innocence,
am cornered for the things that didn’t go their way.
I am also in the amateur cook’s hands,
slipping out, right in the curry
taking the blame proudly for the distaste.
When done with the quota of blames,
I work part-time in the Hope department too.
Bad marks, unlucky results and sad messages;
in all these cases, I’m prayed to exist.
For the first time,
my innocence is not negated.
I am the work of hopeless , some say
The same people call me art, when
I’m a part of hopeless love.
I am the wrong train they say,
why I wonder though is it a bad thing
Because wrong trains lead to right stations also.
All try to avoid me, not knowing
answers and conclusions have to carve their ways through me.
Shambhavi