There is so much violence 
in a loneliness, 
standing in the middle of a crowd,
It's legs fixated on a delta, 
silently under an exogenic force.
It's eyes in search of something 
that can hold its hand while 
crossing the national highway.
It has two umbilical cords:
One of the past life and 
other of a faceless lover.
It keeps both,
under its shirt and
moves like a fish with wings.
It has the freedom to choose 
whether to burdened by life 
or to have a fulfilling death.
It laughs at misfortunes 
and snarl at lucky draws,
like a betrayed customer
in a 50% off sale. 
It's brain is a black hole,
walking on egg shells,
Where words are 
wastes of time and 
time is waste of death.
It's calves are coffee stained,
It's lips with narcotic aftertaste.
Because,
Loneliness feels lonely
without your name in its mouth.

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