Shriya PrasadWe’re all on ecstasy,
Looking at ourselves,
Through blurry eyes, eye floaters, glass panes,
Tinted windows, destroyed kindred spirits,
Hugging the worst of us,
To name them after us,
We are not who we used to be,
Shaking from the caffeine,
Miseries to us- the divine,
Hope for breakfast,
A hope for the better,
For us and the bag named after us,
We’re all addicted to memories,
Of dreams of the day after,
Tomorrow we are busy dreaming,
Carrying the truth in scraps and crumbs,
To be disregarded and discarded,
We are not who we used to be,
We are not meant to be,
Right this moment,
We’re all just words,
There are a million roses in my garden,
All of which were planted when I was young,
In love, with a life , amongst a lie.
They must’ve reminded me of life,
A life, I might’ve owned before it withered my roses away,
Into the January blues of time,
Leaving me with my wilted roses,
Who call me their own.
Wilted roses in my garden need the rain,
And,
A funeral, by my side.
*
పెద్దన్న
కృష్ణుడు
శ్రీనివాస్ గౌడ్
కృపాకర్ పోతుల
తిలక్ బొమ్మరాజు
కవనమాలి
స్వాతి కుమారి
Intense and deep!