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Much adored is the dead poet

Within the glass case
Away from dirt
Amongst the books pressed
Rests his heart


Such was the silence he dreamed
When words streamed
Like riverine flow
In all might arose
Seeking the order in chaos

Orderly bound now his name
In peace standing behind wooden frame
Yet with the ceaseless commotion of wait...

Much adored rests the dead poet.
 Jun 2016 Angeline
Àŧùl
The ancient men,
They were insecure,
Insecure about power,
They did not take it,
The rule of mom.

After they forgot the source womb,
They made all attempts to defame,
Belittling every aspect of women,
I am ashamed of how they became,
Because in the end it is we men.
It's an untold open conspiracy.
My HP Poem #1084
©Atul Kaushal
 Jun 2016 Angeline
Àŧùl
You need me in your boredom,
I can calm down your roaring,
Fill up your emptiness with love,
I can spice up your bedroom,
And love your unlovable soul.
This one's for someone special.

My HP Poem #1085
©Atul Kaushal
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