A poem from my poetry book, Scattered Leaves, received Emily Dickinson Award

The game of life is strange. The time comes silently and whispers “abracadabra,” colors the canvas, and leaves quietly, leaving no trace. Leaves a pang and anguish for a lifetime. We get submerged in this magic of life, obligated. It is the ways and beauty of its colorful, enchanting spell. That is why we all carry our cross, enduring the pain of life, hopes-and-dreams-filled eyes, and living with mirth and glee until we reach our predestined, foolproof destination, which is nothing but a big full stop. Our story is complete. We call it fate or destiny, whatever we like.

I think about how superficial life has become for this generation. They have thousands of virtual friends, but very few actual friends. Most virtual people have a fake identity. Superficial life, fake virtual friends. Handheld masturbators and dolls to dress as they fancy and to sleep with them in bed to fulfill their carnal desires….

The chemical process of human beings is bound to be satiated, but these are peripheral physicochemical requirements, whereas everything exists deep down in the pristine pure form.