The Honey
I feel the roots
Partly rotten, yet feeding the paradoxical being.
They feed the lush green plant
That had borne the sanguine flower.
I dragged myself near it
Drank from its thick delicacy and dozed off.
In the intoxicated years,
Rights and wrongs conjured up into an awful perplexity.
The multiple versions of truth haunted me.
On eight legs, I walked the bridge of sanity.
I woke up years later, to find
It was the honey of illusions.
Now I’m awake, but vague
And in search of a new flower.
Ms. Renjitha. K. R
Assistant Professor of English
Al Shifa College of Arts and Science
Kizhattoor, Perinthalmanna
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