Question written by Vibha at



written by: Vibha



Covered with the dust of time

On the shelf called life,

Holding tattered pages

Is a book called – self.

Illustrated with roses & thorns

And a path forlorn,

Leaving me confused…

Walk or wait,

As it heads towards

an unknown gate

Not a song, rhythm or sound

for the tired soul.

Is a tempest on rise

Camouflaged by the calm?

The thoughts disheveled

in a pattern of loneliness

I wonder …

I question


am I living?

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