by Vedanta Anagha
The town was decorated in black lights,
Calling them — as if none were alive.
The wind whispered soft like waves,
Burning bodies with a cigarette’s flame.
A monster was called — ruthless among all,
Screams filled holes where hope once crawled.
She vanished from the side where I still survive,
And graves kept growing — marking time’s dive.
Four at a table, one rose, three fell,
Heads bowed down — a silent knell.
Blood all around, yet they still implore,
For the crow to sing — one last encore.
The bullet kissed her head — now she’s gone,
Burning again in the flame of her own personal book flame song.
Nov 1, 2025
Nov 1, 2025 at 2:29 PM UTC
by Vedanta Anagha
The town was decorated in black lights,
Calling them — as if none were alive.
The wind whispered soft like waves,
Burning bodies with a cigarette’s flame.
A monster was called — ruthless among all,
Screams filled holes where hope once crawled.
She vanished from the side where I still survive,
And graves kept growing — marking time’s dive.
Four at a table, one rose, three fell,
Heads bowed down — a silent knell.
Blood all around, yet they still implore,
For the crow to sing — one last encore.
The bullet kissed her head — now she’s gone,
Burning again in the flame of her own personal book flame song.
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