I don't know
How to describe this irony
To my tangled up mind.
In some way or the other -
Every beautiful moment
Of the present,
Feels relatable
To the traumatic ones
Of the past,
To some extent....
That tangled mess doesn't know,
She should be happy
Or really really scared....
Spring itself is the most
Confusing season anyway.
It smashes thoughts
Between warmth and cold.
May be, that is why
They never get tired
Of eulogising it.
They hate thoughts.
They hate to think.
YOU ARE READING
Remainders
PoetryA collection of poetry about the leftovers of human feelings. _____________________________________________ ** No part of this book should be copied or published anywhere else.** © Ipsita Mitra Pupu _____________________________________________ ✷All...
