• moitreyee 58w

    With a pale flesh
    and a broken smile,
    She stands before
    the honest mirror
    baking inside
    a million lies.
    What more can
    she sneeze upon ?
    When the course of wind's
    a mere curse.
    And all that's left
    to staple her steps
    are mad after
    her unrhymed verse.

    She is the child
    who's left behind
    the mob that races
    not to learn
    But to win a rusty race.
    She's the bud
    who fears to bloom
    amidst the crowd
    that not seldom burns
    her every breath
    within her sigh.
    At stygian nights,
    when she returns home
    holding back
    her fatigued soul
    she flashes coldness
    on her inflamed freckles
    to stare back
    At those eruptions
    and suppose it a beauty blush.

    She needs the wind
    to sit by her side
    and pat her head.
    She needs the grass
    to promise her
    that fatigue isn't
    a gesture of the dead.
    For every sunset
    brings an orange tale
    and droops on sky
    to mark a fate.

    - Moitreyee Bhaduri

    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

    Background image belongs to me. (My first attempt in making my picture aesthetic. Idk what I have made. Lol.)

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