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A Tripping Balance
Black and grey—
half-dead, half-forgotten,
etched in silence, waiting.
Thou to draw, thou to withdraw,
tracing echoes, tracing the traces,
cursed yet, blessed.
Now, I sit, tracing
the scars of the ruby,
fingers brushing against old omens
in the reflection’s cold embrace.
(I know the echoes all too well—
for I am the one who breathes life
into the melancholies in my head.)
Copyright ©
Ananya Dey
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