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    An Old Monk

    A bud is plucked before could bloom,
    Friendly four corners snore of this room;
    What lives when that dies in whom,
    Leftover moist ashes of last monsoon.

    How whole about the hole that’s hollow inside,
    Only absences would reveal who resides;
    Death is life to miracles walking beside,
    Long back a named shadow committed suicide.

    Don’t wanna wear any number anymore,
    Again tonight’s slumber got sold to strangers like whore;
    Intuitive remaining counts of breath gasp on floor,
    There the end is a gateway to celebrating doors.

    Our I belongs to no right nor wrongs,
    Life is a series of silent songs;
    Thoughts bought by desires simply prolongs,
    Here hear a one hand clap by an old monk.

    satchboogie1984@gmail.com'
    A(a)kashhttp://infornicle.com/
    A(a)kash has been a part of few anthologies and Poetry Festivals namely Efflorescence by Chennai Poetry Circle, Glomag by Glory Sasikala, The Virtual Reality (Sparrow Publishers), Guntur Int Poetry Fest and many more. He is also a proud member of Soul Scriber’s Society, Salem that curates Yercaud Poetry Festival every year.

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