Shamasis Bhattacharya

The peals of laughter, how they seem so spiteful,
With a touch that feigns sympathy, truly spiteful.
Cursed, indeed, feels everything in this life —
A relentless echo in the void of strife.

Yet life itself, a vicious cycle cursed,
Birthing superfluous emotions, overflowing with false redemptions,
Stretching beyond the grasp of the tattered, the scattered —
Those grains caught in the torrential downpour of curses,
Lost souls weaving through shadows, seeking light in verse.

Here, where logic drowns in the emotional flood,
Attachments sting like thorns, unfurling their bud,
Slicing through the fabric of relationships that drift,
Swept by the whirlwinds of dreams so swift,
Touched by a fleeting ecstasy, so adrift.

Amidst this chaos, where shadows play on desires,
The heart battles the mind, a war of internal fires.
Echoes of whispers, the fragments of fractured lore,
Wrestling with the question of what we truly adore.

Now, what is truly cursed —
Life or death?
Choices loom, daunting, unresolved,
Echoing in the chambers of thoughts revolved.
What is confusion, if not this perplexing quest,
Where each path leads to a test, each answer a new jest?