Futile Reality?

Poet- Oohini Mukhopadhyay

What was that smell,

Like an endless drizzle had finally imbibed desiccation.

Like a lamenting crow had surrendered in isolation.

A subtle sense of native hollow,

silhouettes of the deeds casting a shadow.

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Gazing through the dungeons of the subconscious,

behind the overrated smiles and unheard cries,

something murky and obscene lies.

The utterance of which knew no bounds of mortification,

an ever-lasting scar, paralyzing the system,

a serious impediment in comfort.
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However, it is sometimes brutally necessary

to make a slight error in judgment,

because to live as an intelligentsia might cost.

And who says, fortune favors the bold,

Doesn’t it always define the anonymity of gold?

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