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The End of March

Holi is over.
I have let my hair,
Go loose, like a goose, in the wind.
Now, it is a tangled mess,
And, a good expression of myself,
With no idea of where it wants to go.

Is the world not yet tired of being cold?
Everyone reluctant, going nowhere.
Everything static, black and white.

The azaleas are wilted and withered away.

Bewildered by my individuality.
Incomprehensible.
Moving in a dozen different directions,
I am unable to escape my own flaws.
Ageing.
Trapped in entropy.
Approaching absolute zero.
And, I think I have run out of coffee again.

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