Whenever a poem leaves you, it pushes you to an edge; an edge of abyss of dark and unknown. You get closer to the line from where people fall. Many say 'it's foolish'. But a longing sprouts in a dark corner of your heart to meet the unknown and know the shapeless hole. Many say 'It's madness'. But you walk to the hole and suffer. And suffer more in the darkness and apathy of that deep dead well. You suffer and write. Well, most of the times, you don't write, you just suffer.
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