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the work of an assassin is obsolete,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.