The abandoned cycle speaks of many stories
but my favourite one is as sad as it is gory
the little girl who fell to her death,
wrapped up in a little white dress,
pushed off the construction site,
her scream lingering long after her demise.
The walls crumbled to grieve their short-lived guest
and the cycle serves as the headstone upon her place of rest.
They say she comes back every night,
you can see her brain peeking from the skull’s side,
the dress, crimson, from the blood still gurgling out of her veins,
her bones clinging to whatever flesh that remains
her eyes still intact in the sockets,
the brown spheres peep out of the white pockets,
her gaze is enough to hold you still,
like arms crushing you till your insides shrink.
Soon you find yourself pushed towards the edge,
one foot already hovering off the ledge,
the wind’s howl drowns out the thoughts in your head.
She comes closer and you can smell death,
which strangely isn’t of rotting flesh
but of lilies upon the casket, still fresh.
She whispers softly what her killer had said,
Below, the ground is a monster waiting to be fed.
Pushed and pulled like a child’s rag doll,
Only her voice remains in your head as you fall,
“You are too good for this world my darling child
Angels must return to the Master’s side.”


– Sonal Gupta


Photograph by Abhinavanand Singh.


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