Her diary.
Holding a diary
not as slim
as her, walks,
entwined with her
bulk , tumbles upon
a stone,
moorings , usually
strengthening,
what ? the Devil’s
deep seated tent:
flamboyant , wanton,
questionings: they are
the deadwood in
front of
her,
at the end of the day
they are
the strangles ,
tightening ropes ,
sceptical about
the Universe ,
her diary
scribbled with
perplexities , she un mutes her
hitherto silenced voice, how
long to be
a thrall to this
gruelling monster within?
Scoffs the ruling
passion
Of notes
in a pond nearby.
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