You
Your words...

The poem
holds shabbily...

Christened Ganesha
an age old tusker...

My smallish playground
is with grasses worn out...

Not every morning
witnesses...

Lights just went off,
making the room...

Gloom descends
as an assorted cluster of gray...

As I glided over the crest
and slipped...

Amid departed leaves
teardrops and busted twigs...

Flakes of multihued alphabets
twirling inside...

You will smile scornfully reading this
and surely will laugh at the rhythm, if any...

( In memory of my loving father.)
He hummed melancholy notes...