They
Are a Batch
Fallen ,dry leaves loitering aimless
Gather
pals on ground.
There are
dead bones,
Plastic
disposables ,disposing
Our hygienic
and calm.
Like nomads,desperate,
Go, curled
into a corner
Of their own
choice.
They are
Frisbee like.
In dark,
they are like
Threatening
heaps, ghastly
Ghost like. Yet
again, blown
By a whiff of
wind, roam and romp,
Off their
stems, they are in doldrums.
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