They happen in lifts,
and on the stairs,
on lonely night shifts
and in crowded fairs.
They are about words unsaid
and smiles not returned,
about egos staid,
and glassy hearts churned.
Little knives, bigger hearts,
beating wild, in fits and starts.
They leave the night brittle,
O! these tragedies little.
8 comments:
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this poem sounds ferfect for a place like belgium.
Megha~Why so?
the lines have stirred something... will make a real comment when I figure it out. Keep churning the good stuff in the mean while....:-)
Chandan~ Thank You lady. :)
wow this is amazing!
so many little tragedies.
I like this one better :) Good work
Hi,
I found this so powerful.
I loved the poem.
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