• Shubhshree mathur

Weed

They were plucked and thrown away

But they crept inside


Looked down upon in open

But have the richest places to hide


Under the silk mattress

Covered with precious scent

They roll away lazily

In the finest parchment


People judge them

the weeds

Pursing their lips


Then go back to their dens

To lick the smoke off

Their fingertips.

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