'Tick-Tack-Toe, Round I go...'
A collective dirge rose
From the conglomerate
Of sterile wombs
Where do the still-born
Get buried in the narrowing
Graveyards of shrinking mind-scapes?
What distinguishes a still-born dream
From a still-born babe remains
A question forever unanswered
The dirge circles around the ears
Like a mosquito in the dead of night
The potted body loses its sensitivity
Sterility multiplies on make-believe beds
The dirge rings loud and clear
In every conceivable corner!
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Comments about this poem ('Tick-Tack-Toe, Round I go...' by indira babbellapati )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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