A steamed mirror guffawed the fallen rope,
Attached in it was not a man of hope!
The beach that lay across the garden dope,
Averse it rolled with not a soul to cope.
Buried tombs of Rome preceptory,
Haloed the coast past trodden rectory.
Up there he stretched a loop of golden corpse,
Encased in heaps along the mortal thorpes!
Logeshwar is a fiction writer and filmmaker who primarily takes immense pleasure in exotic expressions and ecstatic writing. He writes simply because he believes “Art is Long and Life is Short”