Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2014
Every Sunday he went to the church
wasn't too religious not really much
dressed in his best and tidily neat
he followed the routine by sheer habit
he sought nothing never spelt his wants
joined the others in the rhythmic chants
till years made him frail and old
found him a coffin dark and cold
carried on the hearse to the church he went
prayers were held he remained silent.
Pradip Chattopadhyay
Please log in to view and add comments on poems