And the doors were shut,
Leaving me in dunggeons
of love's secrets, pain, and such.

how
could something end
even if
it doesn't have the chance to start?

Brought up in pain,
the blisters in her body are like carved inscriptions,
bold and bare.
An evidence of what used to be.

She was always sucidal and scared,
scared of living and dying in pain.
She felt it was better to die peacefully,
not from beating and battering.

Her good Samaritan came just like
an angel from a dream.
She released her from her den
and made her a new person.

Now she is as beautiful like the flowers,
her blisters are no longer scary,
but a reminder of a war she fought and won.
Even flowers have stripes,her stripes are what make her beautiful.

© Althea

The birds whistle away
Tweeting favourite lullabies.
The sun has transformed
Oranging,
From her brilliant yellow hue.
She vanished,
Hiding in her room.

The day
Which once posed
In bright neon shades
Of noon,
Has tasted the shadows
Of the moon.

A slice of the moon
Flaunts herself
In the naked, neutral dark skies.
The earth rages queerly.
Vomitting  a warning sign.


My mind dabbles
In its ignorant guessing
As I gaze upon
The uncertain skies.

I feel like a meteor
Might fall to the earth
Tonight.

Music might be
poetry,
sung in grief,
in joy,
in sonorous voices.
With high pitches,
and tones.
Leaping much too deep.
A loud and clear,
periodically wordless tone.
A music piece
might be a love note,
with pure emotions
running deep.

A piercing of life's purity.
Of trust's transformation
into pitiful betrayal.

Dirge's death tune.
An ode, a praise song.
An elegy,
with instruments finely shaped.
The result of an innovative
craftsman's energy.