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Lyric is dead in a petal for being petal
and I find it in a wiped leaf on the glass
A leaf with veins catapulting child drops, on being wind kissed
It shows: the reminder not only lies in
air conditioners.

Knowing toxin and being toxic speak different
but not in a wall with distempers, as it imbibes much
to stay, to sight, to take in and thereby,
call one a poem.

If I call as such, what will it make of me?
Have I matured so much as to neglect a hue and still pen it?
The leaf nods but in a horizontal breeze.

‘Stop trying too hard. You already left (my) imprint on your bed for Me.

You neglected one dew for the other’.

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