-

and I am content
to keep dreaming
forever until death

In this
Realization faze
Of this
Delicate end of madness
Momentarily
I unclench my fist
Looking down
At the nail marks in my palms
My hand transforms
Into
Giant black beetle bugs
So many bugs
All falling
To the floor
Then my arm
And then my shoulder
More and more
Squirmy bugs
Creepy crawlers
All the bugs
That make up our core
   Billions of bugs
That want to start wars
     Lots of Bugs...

The police found her body.
Her body when she was dead.
Who, none did know.
But blood did flow.
Her blood, when she was dead.

The doctor felt her pulse.
Her pulse, which was as dead.
And with a twist
He turned her wrist.
Her wrist, which she had bled.

They called her parents.
Her parents who had fed.
There broke a cry.
Many throats turned dry.
Turned dry, on her death-bed.

Then friends were called.
Her friends; and tears each did shed.
Told when they lived and laughed.
How did this happen instead!
Her death; and why she was dead?

The parents were questioned.
Her parents still filled with shock and dread.
Then friends and familiars, then strangers too.
None of them, no one had a clue.
No clue, what made her bled.
But blood did flow
And so did life.
The life around her.
The life, when she was dead.
            
                                                             - Nandish Malhotra

I fought against myself to love her,
To love her, I had fought my family,
Maybe she did too, but not as seriously.
I had overridden myself to love her,
To love her, I had ignored the world,
Maybe she did too, but not as seriously.
Perhaps, she too was just another illusion after all.

But NO!

I truly loved her,
Only I loved her truly,
The way I loved is not just an illusion.
She did love me,
But not at all as truly,
The way she loved was a fake illusion.
Perhaps, *her love too was just another illusion after all.