By Akshita Srivastava
In the end one can only believe we have landed on the moon,
But isn't it the same when you first involuntary lay your body in the tomb? Car rides, calm cries, chore rights,
Whenever my dreams go to sleep they repeat this anthem that takes me out of the out of tune nights.
Museum feels like a muse of murdered minds,
But still after almost five billion seasons watching the spines of my kind brings out a child's smile line.
Being that child I carried those unscathed smile lines along similar spines only to make them wipe it off me and my life,
believing eyes can be blind but twice less than a dying life.
Is the word inside me or am I inside it?
Where is it do I reside?
Among the sheer shelter shut each time called for selflessness or the hunting crowd hunting for the hunter of helplessness?
When my time is less, I shall feel young again, but until then I choose be closer to the death game.
What is death but rehearsing for it at night during childhood and afternoon during adulthood and presenting it professionally when it least shows up.
For once let the world interrupt me as I lay under the sky rocketing ceiling, trying my hardest to cease myself to tell me the things that really disturb.
When I vanish from the surface of the earth, don't look for me in the moon, it's for the ones who reach their doom,
Unlike us who live their doom, wear a costume of it and their offspring offer an abundance of tablespoon of doom.
But yes, if you want know how my opportune of doom arrived,
Then humans notice that I lived quotidianly imagining the afternoon sparkling rays in the sky as the moon. Additionaly it wasn't always like that except for when my hair turned the colour of my cherished silver gel pen, I was swept out of my own den,
The moon you have landed upon, I could never see because till then my eyes were gone. I believe we have been on moon,
But I equally belive that my afternoon doom
Will never make thy carve my face when dead on the moon.
By Akshita Srivastava
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