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.

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.