Love speaks.
Love tapped in my shoulders, then,
Slowly in my
dream, as if giving us
A wake up call.
I am not Dead , nor
A deadwood, but
a feeling not eschewed
But propagated in
all circles. Poets,
Writers, thinkers and artists embellished :
All enthroned me and some even condoned me
According to
their moods. I did not
wail,
For I know
the nature of the world.
They call me
a Red Rose, or Blue
Or white as
serenity sometimes
A black rose
or deadly corroding evil.
I cannot define myself for the concept
Itself is
conundrum. But still I go on
Like a rivulet
or stream.
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