By: Aneesha Roy

A sad street runs down
unhurried by my dull-grey
house. It stretches far and
wide, dressed in the familiar
trappings of charcoal black.
It’s worn out in places. It runs
along without a destination.
It wears a mournful expression.
It bears the snow, the shimmery
rays of sunlight, the dust, the soot,
the sleet, the hale.
Never once stopping in its path, its
Countenance forever grim and pale.
I wonder if anyone ever waits for it
when it reaches the other side.
It looks sad and wasted.
It has zillions of companions who tread
on it; some once, some twice, some
several times a day.
Some falter, while others steadily,
and some insidiously march
on along their way. I wonder if the sad
street approves of how these cohorts
of plebeians partake of its existence
everyday only to abandon it afterwards.
It looks grimy at the end of the day.
It looks defeated. It looks lost.
I feel impelled to tread on it, to accompany
it till the end of its path.
Does it merge with another?
Does it break off abruptly?
Does it go on endlessly?
Does it not long for a companion?
Or has it made peace with its sordid reality?
Does it curse the pedestrians silently?
I shall accompany
it on its journey.
It looks sad and gloomy. It looks unloved.
I shall accompany it in its lonely tread.
I shall be its soulmate.
It looks withdrawn. It looks sad.
It is full of baleful discontent.
I glance at it through the grills of my window.
It glances back at me.
A sad street runs down
unhurried by my dull-grey house.
It looks just like me.