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written by: Anshika Sharma


I sometimes come up
At three in the morning,
When night still sleeps
On the couch and below,
When it snores silence
In elongated moments,
I stand, and
See the furniture, sitting
In a future-less space
Where the air is heavy
Transforming into walls.

What becomes of places when we leave them?
Do they stop the coming seconds?
Do they wait
For whispers,
For sweeping commotions?
I often think,
But just then a green gecko
Creeps the silence
Running about the still-life.

Anshika Sharma

Anshika Sharma

A nocturnal old-teen with Polaroids as eyes that relentlessly shred the Real in discards for the full view of Magic. No qualms in replacing life with theatre, nods with conversations, and humans with...well anything but humans.

Also, I'm Batman!
Anshika Sharma

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