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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=411408" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tick-Tack-Toe, Round I go...</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=411408" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">A collective dirge rose<br>From the conglomerate<br>Of sterile wombs<br>Where do the still-born<br>Get buried in the narrowing<br>Graveyards of shrinking mind-scapes? <br>What distinguishes a still-born dream<br>From a still-born babe remains<br>A question forever unanswered<br>The dirge circles around the ears<br>Like a mosquito in the dead of night<br>The potted body loses its sensitivity<br>Sterility multiplies on make-believe beds</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=411408" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The dirge rings loud and clear<br>In every conceivable corner!</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Indira+Babbellapati">Indira Babbellapati</a></strong></div>

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