Abhijit Roy Poems

Life’s a cycle,
Call it a wheel;
Thoughts being the spokes,
Your act being the deal.
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Once estimated by the Sun’s position,
Father Time, now is coffined alive in an hourglass;
The sand-grains trickling down,
Within a female figure, ensnared in a wooden frame.
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Four friends met up one evening,
To decide upon their next day’s rendezvous.
Saturday, being the following day.
Each was dead-tired from the week’s work.
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Unbounded was his mind, that led him astray,
A traveler, a hitch-hiker had he become.
Had been a subject of wasteful youth,
Wishful thinking was what he used to nurture.
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Down the alleyway, lived a little-known writer,
A fruitless year it was.
He used to write for magazines;
And this year, most articles of his were turned down.
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An eccentric Math professor of the yesteryear,
Liveth with a penchant for his discipline;
‘Thou knoweth no reckoning’.
Was what he boasted of all his life.
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