Fungal

by Kingshuk Chakraborty

How much we try

To be free

Of memories,

That dawned on a pasture

Had a streak of sunshine

And upon losing

A monsoon it followed;

A silent wet corner

It left,

Could never be dry

Due to occasional rain

That made it fertile

For fungi to grow

And throb on the body

Of mind

That housed the grave

Mushrooms are their flowers

Wild, raising their heads of

Constant ire and pain

Wish we could get rid of!

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