Or a failure that crashes like the heap of waste
The poems which contain continuous imagination
And have abnormal epithets like the tongue of fire
No doubt, at the beginning we may get sensation
Later we feel like burning of our senses
And suffer like mental torture
The reality in a piece of prose or in a report
It does not cut us less either
Rape, murder and war
Lust, greed and covetousness have their own edges
As sharp as the angle of a just broken stone
And suddenly you feel an urge of eruption
An eruption of urge to change
As taste of a person basically by nature is a fling