Fingertips reach out against the forgotten wood.
An old wicked tree, gnarled with memories.
It seemed only moments ago, each groove
and every ridge was known.

A palm outstretched delicately, hoping to feel,
pressed against the rot of fading time.
The wounds of the mind run deep.

The hand pulls back, steadies it’s rage,
erupts into useless follies.

And still stands no closer to remembering.

Sweet nectar trickles down my chin,
The knife slips in sticky hands,
A nibble here, a lick there,
Sparks memory,
Of golden deliciousness of summers past,
scoldings from Mum for unrepentant gluttony,
Tangy sour smells of unripe fruit,
Swings swaying under the Mango tree
And a childhood happy as can be
~ Kriti Mishra

If I was a tree.
Which stood tall.
A monument to life.
Strong, gentle, and kind.
Wind would gently kiss my leaves.

I would be a prison.
A desolate grove of death.
Roots drunk with toxicity.
Trunk twisted, etched in profanity.
Just barren branches of thorns.