milked in white sheets, beloved by wild feelings,
the mark of remembrance, draped in evening's beige.
a ghost of nostalgia, a kingdom of lost voice,
the sparrows fed on feelings, while the roads run through narrows.
the heart has scars all over it's tissues,
the love for one is a cemetery.
the work of an assassin is obsolete,
if the constellations of existence,
are just merely temporary.

𝙄 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙥𝙞𝙚𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙖𝙥𝙚𝙧,
𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙜𝙤, 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨,
𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮,
𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙢 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙥𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙡, 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙛 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙪𝙢𝙣 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧.
𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙙𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙤𝙡𝙙,
𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙝𝙪𝙢 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨
𝙬𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙪𝙨,
𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧
𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨,
𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣,
𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙖 𝙢𝙪𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙫𝙤𝙡𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣,
𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙩 𝙤𝙛.
𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚.

trickles of sweat,
that culcalte into buckets of water,
keeping oceans afloat,
while humans miserable, burning in the waves of unintelligible thought,
the clock chimes, with invigorated rhythm,
the wind is dead silent, as it whispers,
a silent tongue of shrill voices.
the cricketers, succumb to their misery,
in the dead cry, of the night,
owls accompanying children,
to midnight meals of laughter,
whuch would only happen in the dreams,
of a suitor to the polarity, of things.
the walls around here are baked,
with heat and wisps of murmur, that fill
the numbness of crocky ears, leaning to,
unfulfilled silences to which, the grasshoppers dance.

With the wind, it disappeared, fathomed away,
Into the unending horizon of lies and mirages.
I could've chased, and followed, and trailed,
through the mountains, seas and mud tracks,
But I had enough of it all.
I had realized, that life was more than just always chasing,
It is about caring what you have,
before it goes away too,
It is about being at home, where your heart rests,
Sleeping peacefully with a mature choir of feelings,
Dousing the fire of greed.
Forever in certainty.
As some things r better lost than given back.

Degree by degree,
the cold grew outside, numbing all,
in it's way.
The fog bowed down and apprenticed.
But inside, you pulled me closer,
and scales of temperature suddenly seemed,
A lot less important to measure anything.
In unison, our warmth dissipated into each other,
as we knew,
The cold wasn't the only thing growing outside,
but our love too.

Her words danced like wine on my lips,
poetry in my soul and
ecstasy in my heart.

not everybody needs testimonials,
some dead with colours stroked,
at their feet, unkempt, kettles of rage,
boiling and burning, the heat and it's
conundrums has become a melodrama.
it is searing up wounds, once healed,
now spilling blood and secrets, shared
by ties, times and seas of cooking agony.
testimonials are not for, every wandering soul.
as they're also meant for every locked
frolicker.