This Mile Of My Walk Poem by Procyon Mukherjee

Nobody leaves home at this hour

With a hint of escapade drooling on your mind

Like the warped outlines of putrid vapors

Smelling as ether in an empty bottle, unkempt

At the table where unattended articles have been waiting



To take me on fire and the beats are rising to the tune

Of running feet that I left

Panting in expectation, they have never seen the end

Of closed windows or the inside of a falling creeper

Efforts galore to reach somewhere from



This mile of my walk, alone

Must be that moment

I have been dreaming in my busiest chores

That which is pushing my ‘I' from within

An ensemble I have been all along commending



That nobody leaves home, alone

In an early train, Nobody

When there is room for one

More act, one more that can still succeed

To fail, or fail to succeed