2) Her willed Bed.
It is not a cot of iron criss cross rills
It is not a cot of iron criss cross rills
Unfolded , a seat by
influx of visitors
to inquire the health of
septuagenarian.
It is a
knitted mat of coir, her WILLED BED
Holding her
in stress and duress,
the stared up
Layers oftener, prick her skin, she turns aside
To escape
the tantrums.The high vaulted
roof
Consoling her
cap a pie. Can she go back to
those
Days of hop skip
and play around the pillared structure?
Generations have
passed and stayed, all have gone.
This curled
up sponge, may be breathing her
last
Tomorrow in the same coiled mat.
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