Void
by Samartha
Vashishtha
It
always happens like that
falling, you need a ground to strike
solid, harsh; something to bang your head
to
crack your skull when you open
your eyes in a cozy blue-lit room
with a distant rain lingering in your senses
and
the neons flickering on statues in bedroom poses.
It has no beginning to boast off
it ends where it began
bottomless like you.
