poddar kushal - torn pages

Torn pages


Torn pages from daily dreams and diaries.
They are all scattered on the blue carpet.
Pick up a piece and wet your palm
The color of blue digs deep roots within.

A Sunday is emptied out of an old box
A treasure and a ghost roam and their sighs
You can’t wipe, can’t wipe, from your fogging eyes.

Time lays loose and you shut in the old box.

poddar kushal

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