Lady of the House


The lady of the house
rises before the alarm goes.
She walks with ease and does the chores,
nonchalantly moves with the hands of the clock,
in the windowless tower of the lore.
Little did she frown for her lack of breather ;
peace she finds in her lack of breather.
She quietly relishes in being the idol of the daughters in law.
She deeply cherishes the relics ;
balances her toe on the thin web of beliefs.
The paper on the table waits for its turn to land on the grate unread;
perhaps it will burn with green and smoke the scriptures framed,
before the outdoorsy breeze sucks it from the chimney black.
Few decades to the most ,
it will take her to finally grace the hole in the soil;
a mole with a winged sculpture above it will toil
to balance on the majestic headstone;
witnessing the script on the way to scripture.

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