In the dead of the night,
She'd sit on the railings of that bridge
And watch the citylights sleep
Inside the river.

It's so easy to push a man.
First, they'd stupidly go to the edge and just stand there,
Saying it felt great.
I've never stood on the edge, so I can't vouch for them.
Anyways, they'd stand there, oblivious to an impending doom,
How, I often wonder.
I mean, how do they trust
So easily?
Do they not know the ways of life?
I do not trust myself, let alone crazy looking
Strangers with scars on their face.
And even when I come close (too close, uncomfortably close) to them,
They'd look at me with somber eyes.
Even when I put my hand on their back,
Ready to plunge them into darkness,
They'd be look onwards with a smile, as if happy to embrace their fate.
I've never seen their faces when they fall down.
But, for my own sanity, I like to think they aren't smiling ones.

Bake your cake,
Look outside the window,
A sun is burning for you,
Impatiently hot,
"Ah, come on already. The cake!
I'm waiting, **** it!".

Look out of the other window,
That neighbour,
Her nostrils flared like a boar,
Mouth watering, eying your cake with her x-ray vision,
Like Superman .
Oh my, her ******* are *****,
Your cake has aroused her more than her husband, I think.

If you walk a few steps and look out of
The railings of your front gate,
The postman is standing with a letter for papa,
Arrested (probably handcuffed) by
The sweet smell of kaju and kismis in your cake,
The look in his eyes saying he wants to barge in,
Drop all his postmanship (his letters) and stuff
Himself with mouthfuls of your beautiful cake.

Go on now, bake your cake.
I'm waiting.
Heck, I even wrote a poem for it.

Mrs. Dolores sat on the armchair in her balcony,
A cigarette burning in the ashtray,
A tattered Jane Austen on her lap,
Her pretty face made up,
Mascara smeared,
The bright red lipstick intact,
The same smug look,
With a tinge of sadness in her eyes.

Her beauty had faded away,
Not long after her innocence did,
But she loved herself for what she had done,
For whatever she had become.
And hated herself for killing what she could've been.

Mrs Dolores sat on the armchair in her balcony,
Blood dripping down her wrist,
The same proud look,
With a mist of betrayal in her eyes.

Every morning she goes
Into the woods, picking twigs for
Fire and small flowers for her tiara.

They still meet,
In stolen crevices of time;
Devoid of their glory,
He kisses her scars,
She caresses his burnt skin.

A small songbird sat hidden
Among the leaves, singing
Melodies to tired branches.