Bestowed by the Ericsson of his
weaknesses and tranquility.
Defended by the insurgence
of the immature soul and a mature mind.
a
a
He gave up writing by just cutting away
and without garnishing the stories of his life.
The stories which were the lifeline of his attire ;
Stories where agreeing on okay from both sides was a satire.
a
a
Where no one believed in him
and kept bragging him in a whim.
Where he couldn’t find anyone
who could come back and give him his holy reign.
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Getting back to the memory lane
he remembered about the Saint in disguise.
He went back to the changing room
wearing the shroud of not people but of his choice.
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a
The mask of happiness and laughter and grin,
could easily absorb the pain and the tranquilities of his skin.
But the room still spoke the truth
where there dewy crystals and the broken mirror were kept in Ruth.
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Firming to himself and concluding the thought drains
he decided not to leave stories of pain down the lane.
He never chose the wrong path –
“Because he never expected to be loved widely ,
but accepted to be loved deeply. ” was definitely not his fault.
-Amber Reyansh Mishra