Like a grey boat with an accusatory tone
never bothering a wharf
I stand still. Alone.
No longer I write the wilderness
with defeated yet indomitable wraith
as I feel unsafe inside,
the very place, I knew once.
Perhaps the memory grinds against
as I wonder the shallow dark
nowhere, in my mind.
Neither an infant cooing nor an urchin dying
just a meteorite no longer flying.
In anxieties and disappointments
I stand here, stargazing.
Shameless as I wear a crown of thorns
waiting to get trapped into the clouds.
Unadorned as I speak my sorrow
diluted with warm and dark
consistently conjecturing a fact
a fact of never being alone
yet alone.
Despite a false hope, it is a weight distilling darkness
through bleeding lines between apathy and hope
whilst the moon hangs without an answer
in echo dark
where only silence answers back.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
Sketches of being nonchalant through symphonies of unsent letters. Playing.
Drinking the melancholy through a cloudless night, alone. Swings betrayed.
Stealing the numbers, sitting in the blue, sinking.
How red the moon hangs below?
How crushed are the fairy lanterns?
She lived. She died. She survived.
To breed a demon within.
She wanted a pause. She wanted a release. Not weeping. Not longing. Surviving.
To breach the silence its thickness, She pretends to crumble her summer.
Idle musings to feel the blade cut of the grass, dancing barefoot, losing a grip.
As laughter emanates, pockmarked with a mortal sense, trying the road, less.
Inhaling does not hurt anymore. And nor does the whiskey in her tone.
From her hidden detritus, she laughs.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC