How tragic it is 
To think that at given second
Anyone of us can die 
And be forgotten within a month, may be a week.
Melanin wings of a dragon fly torn by jaggery coloured thumbs of autumn,
A poem lies naked in the wash basin spelling death as beauty.
Beauty as in the drooling of sunlight over your honey skin.
Don't ask me what happened to the poet-
He was plucking potatoes near a coal mine to feed the crows and pigeons and it was the last location he was seen as per the reports.
Our ancestors taught us that we are daybreaks made up of dust, soon to be back from art to clay.
Don't ask me where they are now-
Last time we talked , they were massaging the foreheads of their plushies with their little hands, trying to ease the pains of these stuffed beauties, arguing could they can save anything for they can't even save themselves.
So, believe me when I say we are all the same sometimes.
From protein deficienct mother tongues to 
sly lullabies on autopsy tables.
But then we are of different shapes, and different colours.
You are a heart shaped one glowing in golden colour.
And me, a blue parallel line.
When you fall, you fall like a feather.
And I fall  like a bomb.
But then there is softness in falling,
softness as in a shovel hitting a glass jar of marbles, a mother kept in memory 
of her dead child.
If you think of it,
am still giving shimmering adjectives to what we all are afraid of.
I say,
Death is a red marigold,
totally being aware of bleeding veins we play with.
I say,
It is a gown to enter into heaven's ball, 
Totally being aware of broken verses of apologywe were denied of.
I say,
How tragic it is to think that 
at given second anyone of us can die,
totally being aware of how magnificent and miraculous it will be.
I say, being forgotten is tragic too, while the truth is that it is lovely to be forgotten.
Like a Fitzgerald novel.

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