The Girl With The Book.

Sitting by the window of a usual cafetaria
Pensive in her mood and an expression lost
You might miss a glimpse of that girl
Too absorbed in the pages of Tagore and Frost.
Her benumbed coffee frowning on the table
Her mind floating through emotions undefined
She feels around her the beauty of verses
She creates her Elysium amidst all unkind.
Her eyes dreamy,Her words smoky
She speaks as though from a land unknown,
Trying to fit in where others have already
But a half read-book always on her mind...

She wakes everyday,to tell herself
Finally she'd break off with her world of fable
And relate to a world that stares on her face
Dismal,scared and so vulnerable.

Everyday she reminds herself
Life ain't a poetry,
Its gait is far away from a rhyme.
Its harsh and painful,often sarcastic
Its nothing of whimsy,seldom sublime.

Her faith in the love of Oliver and Darcy
Her unending wait for the Montague lad
Its funny what growing up often does to your dreams
Its funny in a big way,yet slightly sad.
How she loved the smell of old books
Their tattered pages took her back in time,
Obscure faces she could stare for ages
And some stains that let her imaginations run wild.

Her friends had grown out of candies and paper-boats
They now jeered at the mention of princes and steeds
Her soul however ran like an unchained melody,
Alas! There's no growing up for the girl who reads...
-debosmita