Smoke Poem by K B Manchanda

Found a more
Stranger Me
When treaded
Hand in hand
With the life.

The game of vice
of being alive
created strangers
in blood
a human instinct
I call it or an
Animal instinct
of survival

No one sees
No one touches
good or bad
feels

for looking back
I know, its death
Of future

For looking back
in rear view mirror
while dragging
ahead, May avert
Future exegiencies

Strangers, remained
Strangers still
Despite the hours of
Togetherness
And the Smoke
of these moments
died down
its silent death