VERDICT

By Saumya Shyam

How often writers write about love ,

Seldom they feel .

Love

A filthy word used for foreplay

A drug overdosed for an eggshell

Things said , some of them meant

Where much is forgotten and yet much remains.

Remain

A morning followed by the remnant of night before

Lurking the truth lingering the lies

Jones of overdosed

Pictmotion of charade events

Where nothing can be forgotten and yet much

Need to.

As far As

Sheets seemed messy , cats remained starved

Vase untouched for rest days and mails formed pile under doormat ;

Aftermath deja vu is always formidable

Yet we choose to love

And we do.

Life

To all what ifs , when one choose

What if it works

From twelve springs without one another

To rest together

And beyond ,

Often we feel seldom we say.

For the Eulogy

I guess this is enough.

By Saumya Shyam