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Stories


The eyes of the stories are bulging Out of the cracked windowpane,
Searching for a listener.
Stories with bindis on their foreheads are striking a pose
With their saree pallu.
Stories are lurking
From the car glasses,
Waiting to bump into someone.
The lost generation's stories
Being trapped between the bedroom walls,
Started nagging for release.
Shuttered by the binding forces,
Stories demand antidepressants.
My stagnant love and evident hatred has different stories to tell,
Like the flying kite and its manja.
The breaking bones and breaching laws scream stories of torture.
The multifaceted tapestry and cutlery propose stories of subjugation and indifference.
Romanticised stories demand a stripping,
And pink stories argue for another clothing.
When King Lear laughs at his own story,
Poor Tom dances at another story.
The blood reaches out and shares his story,
The heart beats at an umpteen number of stories.
The adventurous story of runaway
bride and
The nuptial stories of shy wife
Meet to say hello.
As long as I exist, I give birth to stories,
And stop saying that our stories are the same,
My stories are different from yours
And theirs,
Sorry, we are not the same,
But every inch of us has a story to say.
Big or small,
Allow me to bury my story by the sunset,
And welcome a new one by sunrise.

A.C

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