Over the brim

the glass when filled over the brim,

spills against the nothingness of life,

It is half full or empty when poured,

otherwise left drunk from the fountain of love,

there is a sinister game of plying desires more often,

than not the silence of the unspoken words by lover,

who walks undead in the morning sun ,carrying glass

filled with brim of joyous pride of having spent night in love,

with the divine but the ego faltering at the other end,

of love living in the age of modern warfare,

where usually lovers knock themselves down with,

the wine for life and surrender not to ego but ego less thunder.


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