wot

Was this prose?

My face was stolen.
Found it. It’s swollen.
My fingers ache.
Wonder how much they take.
My knees are weak.
Carrying weight at its peak.
I’m big. But I’m meek.
All this happens every week.
I reek;
of dried tears.
I pine;
a dozen beers.
I’m morose.
Want carnations; no rose.
You’re far.
You’re close.
I end this poem.
Or was this prose?

Varun Rajagopalan.

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