Poetry

Counting the digits, 
of your hand, you forget, 
how many fathers you have. 
 
Was it not very odd that 
truth exists in the crying eyes 
of a child whose mother 
had abruptly disappeared? 
 
It always hurts, when 
realization comes. A little 
sprig of cowlick, reminds you of 
timelessness. You can move- 
 
in any direction. You want to 
go. That will need a third eye.