picking the leftovers of tattered optimism.
Sulking in an effort to fence my mind
from places where misery hits my loved ones.
For I can't unsee a dying man's breath hanging onto
lips of his woman.
and I can't benumb myself from the horror stretched
along the corpse,
turning a dead man's dignity to insignificant.
Though what I can dodge
is the urge to soak in the normalcy.
And nothing calms my sore heart
but the promise of a silvery world
that lets us be.
Shweta Sharma
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