(From my poetry Collection 'Signatures')
Always I come
across
in the middle of a
poem,
a tear drop and a
clucking tongue,
A yawn and a sigh
as the advent of
conclusion;
sometimes a smell
of breast milk
and a scent of
lipstick
Always I come
across
at the end of a
poem
an odour of cut up
papaya;
a sliced off
pineapple piece
telling of lost
peace
at the end of a poem
Don’t you?
Vaiyavan
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