Huddled at the feet of his addled brain,
The poet awakes under blanket of night
From a smothering will to convulsively clutch at love,
His borrowed time winding and
Wilting like choking shrubs
At a river of black waters from swollen eyes.
Someone once said that the past is place you can’t visit. He said that “planet past” does exit. Hence it can’t be visited by even out mos...
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