Brain Curry Poem by Shouvik Roy

The twin sisters named
peace and turbulence
are cooking a curry of my brain,
with oil made in the factory of hope
and spices coming from the land of oblivion.
The pressure mounts up and my brain
sends signals to my feet to keep stepping on
the same lanes of oddity again and again.
But the sisters won't open up the lid yet,
not until my brain dies down,
and they think it's ready to be served.
Till then, I shall walk and watch.