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The Prodigal by Dhruvi Modi

Photo by André Kertész

The Prodigal

You whisper your hours away at the hems

of footpaths, curl in puddles and leave wisps

of wiry hair in your wake.

You are gently planted by a pair of green thumbs

and after many languid hours, you germinate. But

you never break free of the warm soil

that couches you. You are the prodigal,

the spendthrifts, the black sheep, the

unashamed. You are the abandoned, the ones

unfit for taming, the ones who refused,

the ones whom no one will ever know. Dear

unfinished poems, I will tear you

apart some day, and sew scraps of you

onto the rips in others. I will look back at you

and see a skull and bones. And I will still

love you because you came to me.

Dhruvi Modi is an avid reader/writer, and curates a newsletter at


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