Tulips by Tammy Pineda

The Daily

Columns & Archives

Along with the daily feature articles from our columnists, read works from our past contributors in the categories of prose, poetry and visual art, alongside interviews and other musings.


Youth and By Ourselves

Consider this and that it wasn’t meant to be; The thing that is going to kill me is already on the inside. There’s this small grandfather clock Inside us all- There are minutes of death. Just the touch. Just this brief. Where love slips away with the fare, But who’d ask for it back? There was a time when I knew you, though- Hands, face, pendulum, And when we finally caught up with history We were no less cruel than our parents. Yet we were relentless, forgiving, unconditional; We were direction...in blue...on a road sign Found everywhere...then suddenly...all at once... Father. He misses mother and she’s been dead For 24 years, I haven’t missed you that much and you are so gone. Then I stepped away from the poem Mid stanza...

We must have been sexton’s sad pencils to say Those things back then. But there are rooms for us now and anniversaries to Commemorate. In the perfect city someone has left everything, Including themselves. You. You should Make sure you date and pen down All the soft things that we said. Because everyone will ask when it was, How it happened- say something about it. How the night rain spilled all over Our lives. Our soft, soft, honest lives.

Written By: Christ Keivom, an undergraduate student at Delhi University, pursuing in English Honors. Edited By: Oskar Leonard (@ozzywrites)

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