In the Lane

The distraught woman
tears her arms,
bites her lips,
pulls her hair
covers her face.

Blood oozes out,
stains her red
she is frazzled
thin and meagre
minimally clad.

She stands in the middle
of the lane. Dares any
who want to cross.
Causes a ruckus. A ghastly
figure to perceive.

Once sane and pretty,
the torpendo of life
has driven her mad.
She swears, curses
and lies on the pavement.

Those who know
of her past, sympathise.
Others hate her sight.
She is proud.
Does not seek alms.



By meenas17

A lover of classical Carnatic music.
An avid reader, passionate writer, into stocks and investments for livelihood

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