The poetry has been abandoned in the tawny damp moorland of manuscript
under the tuberculous darkness of poetic bookshelf
even the equinox cockroaches have been abandoned them with just some sniffs
after they got crushed by the unaware steps of poetic stamps
And rejected them as unsocial polythene.
The me-ness of poets also haunt likewise blowing polythene
but yet to the sky a poet, an abandoned manuscript
or yet imperishable-polythene all are same.
The poem which never born
by crossing the border of poetic idiosyncrasy
it remains unborn forever
but yet, its idea flourished
through the pioneer poems of novel laureates.
The poet who never get up
Against the peripheral state of modesty
Nobody feels sorry for him
Except that cunning poet of ‘Daily Light’
Who have been acted as night dog
And thus the manuscript of the modest poets
Turn into gibberish and lead them to blow as local bus tickets
In the midst of Kawran-Bazaar.
After all this trickery that defamed poet thoughts
Why I hadn’t got the Nobel Prize?
The yellow filthy cat also makes growl after listening to that!