Poem is a dead body now,
Dragging and pulling by foxes,
Rotting in the dustbin of reality,
Now a days poem has been lifeless.
Poet has been a great cemetry,
Funeral pyre is burning in his heart,
Lot of words are burning there,
Unpenned poems are flying as ash.
The poem and his poet,
Has been a fairy tale today,
Has been a black and white photo in the frame.
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