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By Ashutosh Sharma

Like seasons I wish I could share,

but then who would eventually care.

Like the sun in the morning, it came so far,

I’m still trying to fight this endless war.

What if like those rains I would shower,

still can I useful to those street flowers.

I keep thinking about the winds and waves,

sitting under the leaves and its shades.

What color would you be for me, did you looked at the flower and bee.

If all those evenings are the stories of lies, is it the dawn or which part of slice.

I will assume it holds the black and white, in the world full of colors taking different sight.

By Ashutosh Sharma