November 15th

Running on an unguarded road
I saw an abandoned diary
with title—“ The Blue Bride.”

The leathery—recycled paper one
was not locked
wide open to axe by a stranger.

Salty conscience rubbed the heart
why read this?
Is the moral compass starved?
I patiently waited for
the smoky debate to end.

The 16th page had a logarithmic poem
with baser emotions and
exponential passions.

31st page was cheeky
flowing to the fluty winds.

58th one was loaded
breathing
the heavy pain of abuse.

61st
with charcoal art
of white mountains
and gypsies.

On 62nd
A stranger saw
and again
I was gentleman.



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