And then you wake up from another dream,
Unlike a nightmare a dream is always sweet ,

Scratched down in forbidden walls ,
You find the afternoon sour and rough ,

The evening can be bitter ,
Or Maybe better ,
The bitter can be better too ,

While numerous scars left on thy heart ,
The dripping blood is never enough red too ,

It burns twice or thrice in every second,
In every moment a bit too ,

And then you fall in an ocean of vultures ,
Where the ravens are crooning high and low,

You rush to every corner to find a door ,
But the walls are getting higher now ,

Forbidden they , for you dull ,
Like a damsel's midnight hue ,

The only thing you find in the walls ,
A bottle of spirit which is blue ,

Have you ever wondered how does it feel ,
When you pour it on your bruise?

The cut is deep, flesh on hit ,
It's just the scratch numbs you slow .

©