Sometimes, I wonder why

The silent whispers

Gives birth to sound, Crisper

The mere misunderstanding

To some new born stranding.

The flare, with wind, gone

And the sparks, suddenly, begone.

The tumbles arising without the presence,

Which questions, 'Was that pretense?'

The memories, the guilt

Flows until the hilt.

The multiple flinches,

The hurt that blenshes.

The sorrow which rolled.

The unstated that fold.

Make me question my sanity

The absurdity and futility.

Yet a thing persits among the blemishes

'Was that worth the hitches?'

- Urja Ghosh
(BookLoverVenue)