The Missing Horseman
Some people point a fingerat my face and ask,
“Is that really your body?”
I say, “Oh, come on.
Why would that be my body?”
That is nothing but
an old, weathered mansion.
Once, it was bright and gleaming,
polished, immaculate.
Now, it stands on the verge of ruin.
Banyan saplings push through
the cracks of its crumbling plaster,
while bats and house snakes
have made their homes within.
But what can I do?
There is no other way.
I have now
put that ruin
on my body
and wear it as my own.
Across the twilight sky,
astride a mad horse
racing through the clouds,
I am, after all,
nothing but
a missing horseman.
Poetry by sinha murari
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Written on 2026-09-17 at 04:38
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