The Prodigal
You whisper your hours away at the hems
of footpaths, curl in puddles and leave wisps
of wiry hair in your wake.
You are gently planted by a pair of green thumbs
and after many languid hours, you germinate. But
you never break free of the warm soil
that couches you. You are the prodigal,
the spendthrifts, the black sheep, the
unashamed. You are the abandoned, the ones
unfit for taming, the ones who refused,
the ones whom no one will ever know. Dear
unfinished poems, I will tear you
apart some day, and sew scraps of you
onto the rips in others. I will look back at you
and see a skull and bones. And I will still
love you because you came to me.
Dhruvi Modi is an avid reader/writer, and curates a newsletter at https://toinsanity.substack.com