The Essence Of My Mother's Existence Poem by RAJESH.C BOSE

I enter the quiet,
The quiet of my mother's heart,
A silence aged and deep.
She dwelled within this hush,
Spanning over five long decades.

Now, I yearn to explore,
With all my heart,
Every hidden corner of her heart,
To understand her, heart and soul.

Thus...
Like a thief in the night,
I wander the corridors of her heart.

One by one,
Each memory,
Cast from ancient boxes and shelves,
Nearly crumbling apart.

These memories are mine,
To store in my mind's shelves.
Though bittersweet,
They remain my sole treasures.

Shelves are cleared,
Boxes discarded.
Everywhere I seek
For the secret legacy left by my mother.

My mother…
Neither fully alive nor dead in her time,
She couldn't mirror Sylvia Plath,
Yet she was a poet, unacknowledged.

My mother…
Never a source of joy,
She fostered a well of sorrow,
Dooming her offspring to its depths.

My father was no Ted Hughes,
An ill-suited companion for her,
Scorned by his spouse throughout life,
Yet embraced by death.

No boxes of his to unpack,
No farewell to bid.
No shelves remained,
He left nothing behind.

Now my quest for the treasure ends,
The intruder despondent.
An old, worn notebook flung at me,
Bearing the scent of my mother's existence.

Within it lay a lengthy poem,
Penned in blood and tears.
The concealed treasure revealed,
The essence of my mother's life.
At last, I grasp the roots of her despair