Sent Anonymously

It returns to haunt, the dilemma, of disowning the old version of truth; when I was searching the parallelism for the sake of otherness. The unreturning melancholia, brings the surreal intruder, I did not want to entertain. The insane activity of heart wants a sin uncommitted. The flirt eyes like a tulip between your fingers, unrolling the tender petals. Night throws the salt on the moon. There were no tears. Satish Verma