A con and a drum

It’s pretty simple.
If you kill someone
to kill their suffering,
it’s Euthanasia.
A larger-than-life kinda dose of
It’s charity.
But thence, cuts in
the disparity.
If a bed was shared
Or a womb.
Or a deal set for adjoining tombs.
Or a deal set over a betel leaf with clove,
I believe it’s called love.

If every night ends with
the coinciding recitation of,
“I’m protected.
I’m worth it.
I’m revered.”
you don’t yearn for the recitation
of the confession of love.
The charity begins with the
the printed lines,
a frame on the wall,
and a screw.
And a single-string guitar tuned to,
“I love you.”

When the world sleeps
India sleeps a deeper sleep.
Humongous dreams have their toll!
No details are allowed to slip.
Given the streets are futuristic.
And nature decides to be a bit altruistic.
Until you stitch your favorite moments,
made of Hello kitty and other garments
into a futuristic blanket for the spare,
(all thanks to Nolan)
running on love.
Onto Theresa, I swear.

Hold that thought.

Someone once said,
” A part of your riches does not qualify as charity.
Either you give nothing, or you’re into it
in totality.”

Is Euthanasia for ending their suffering?
or your own?
Is the self-reassuring for her vanity
or your own?
Are blankets or for their deep sleep
or your own?

What I’m asking is,
As I express it unconventionally, unconditionally and unnaturally,
when I use the phrase, “My love,”
Is it my love for charity?
Or the charity of love for the other?

Speaking of Theresa.
“Charity is love.”
said the Mother.

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