Bleed stories.
Of brittle bottles,
with mahogany wines.
Buried are the ballads,
Of the half- digged mines.
My tongue itches to tell
of the life spent on a muddy footpath.
Of the discarded kins, and their drunken dads.
My will to sing in their troubled times.
Of slipped rewards,
with no chillies and lime.
Of the curly hair and withered dreams.
With strong bonds of love in puppy screams.
Of confused goals and lost purpose.
Of brothers who are always gross.
I vomit all the lissome fears.
Of trenched toll fines and pint of beers.
By
Falguni Panchamatia
