The Writers Voice
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hoarding and neon signs
Lost me from myself beneath
The skyscrapers where
Crowds of men found a way of life,
And to my disgrace, I lost one.
None seemed to care
Even the arrival of dawn,
Since the difference in night and day
Were none and still like fools
All loved the joy of being artists
Of the unending drama.
Dollars and pounds, rupees and francs
Love lost existence in the far off ground
Which had sunk so deep that only few fairy tales
Could name, and it ‘just seemed Interesting’
To hear the same.
Losing all hope in the polluted air,
I dreamt of beauty I could find in love
Till a sound of coins woke me up
Thrown at me by a passer-by
Thinking me to be a beggar,
Calling it to be a token of love.
At last I realised love’s existence still remains
But the way of loving has met an unprecedented
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