Warm Bed Blanket
P Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Best poems are lost in the warmth of blanket.
Lured away by sleep
they could be precious keep
if I could hold them through night.
Best poems surrender to warm bed’s comfort.
Lulled into stupor quietly abort
before I could take them on a sleepless ride,
they seek a dark corner find it and hide.
Best poems brew though in the stillness of night.
I cannot birth them show them daylight
but let them die in abject disgrace
on warm bed beneath blanket
sunk without a trace!
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