THE SHADE OF MY LIFE

If I were to write of my life with this pen,

I would not write of a single,shattering blow,

But of the slow,quiet leak of the days,

The gentle,constant ache I have come to know.

I’d write of the clock that ticks in my silent room,

Of a heart that beats like a guest who overstays.

I’d write of my reflection,a familiar face,

That feels like it’s seen so much better days.

I’d write of the hope I did not kill with a shout,

But left on a shelf to grow dusty and thin,

A seed that I planted,then left in the drought,

Too frail to begin.

I’d write of the love that was almost enough,

The words that werealmost kind,

The hands that held me,but then slipped away,

Leaving the ghosts of their touch on my mind.

I’d write of the dreams that don't die screaming and bright,

But pack their bags slowly and walk out my door,

Leaving me staring at the pale,morning light

On a floor I have swept a thousand times before.

This is the pain I would carve into verse:

Not a battlefield,glorious and vast,

But my small,quiet room, my recurring curse,

The weight of my future,the shade of my past.

It is the pain of my phone that never rings,

Of my name that nobody calls,

It’s the hollowed-out space in the center of things,

And the slow,patient erosion of my walls.

So if this is the poem I write for my life,

I forgive me the sorrow,the grim, heavy truth.

It’s the beauty I never got to use in the strife,

And the weariness born in the soul of my youth.

                  Aqib Hussain