One needs to realize, love doesn't really exist
For only birth, pain, hunger and death does
And we seem to subliminally enslave
People under false pretenses
Those we term as ones we love
Are of no value once they overstep
If love was so real then pray tell
Why does one feel the angst, lf remorse
Writers and poets are vagabonds
They roam roads and their sense are seldom found
Like a heart seeking to express
Trekking along the Kaas or Pushpavati valleys
Only to know these are momentary musings
Come Monday and reality shall bite
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