wilting and Wilting

Every Wilting
Is a tale
That told itself over and over
Till no one heard it anymore

And that is perhaps
How some stories die—
When there’s no ear
Tides take them away
To the void of memories
Where
Shells of presumptions unrealised
And silences dipped in solitude
Are made.

“Is that a loss?”
The wilting, you ask

Unspoken vows are made
To those living in tales
and to those living in anecdotes
That over a cup of tea in the evening
Or over a train ride with face fathomable
Stories will be emulated
For that’s the only place
The people in there
And that time spent
Stays alive
Despite Wilting.

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