Again Nightmare

It was unreal. Will
not matter. I am still in mode to
accept the lies of distant twilight.

O honey, why the
comb was built in my poems to
sweeten the words hired from pain.

I will not know it for
a while. A face was planted on
your lips. You sing like a nightingale.

Present surroundings are full of lies. People are driven into a make belief that what is around is real.

Rajendra Singh Baisthakur , Nellore, AP, 524003