Poetry

There was too much, violence in the 
house. I walk through the pathways― 
 
of divided family. As if waylaid 
by the thugs. I am stranded bereft of― 
 
all my achievements, fixating at withdrawl. 
 
The menu 
alters. 
I go 
hungry. 
The toothache persists. Life is 
still.The vision seethes without wings. 
Pulsating silence. 
There is no voice. 
 
Like mannequins, we dance 
without geniality. The master 
is nowhere. Who was pulling 
the strings?