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A dead poem | Shriyanshi Yadav

there are no poems left within me now. every space between my bones is now an empty void, an unscrambled word that has no meaning of its own. I try to solve the puzzles of stars and their constellations Of lovers and their love and it turns out the moon was the most beautiful of all, their pain was the most beautiful of all. my mother says the curls of my hair have all withered with my age.. just like my innocence did when I wrote my first sentence. people said, I discovered something beautiful out of all my sadness and pain and trauma but on some days, I have poetries etched all over my body, in faded letters with crimsoune ink that has no writer of its own but ugliness. There are dried marigolds and roses that I stole from my neighbour's garden, last winter. he warns me not to touch the colours of his house or I'll turn them into sorrow. he warns me not to look at flowers which die on their own or I'll turn them into glitters. there's this poem that I feel is stuck on my mind like a song I don't know the lyrics of there's this poem that is dying in my own hands and I can do nothing to save it. Instagram acc-: _scintilla.__

 
 
 
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