Should be dead by now,

These thoughts

Shamed by the harsh light of the day.

But even the night is no haven,

For as I hide

There in the necropolis

of my broken dreams,

Your specter beckons

And impregnates me-

verse of gloom  given birth,

ghostly beat resurrected.



This bed should be the grave.

But even sleep you own-

Your name engraved

On the epitaph.

Reverie you claim-

Your story is the dismal chanting

on every corner.



And rising in the morning

Is like of a starved vampire.

No satiety is found,

For everyone walks now

Under the daylight

With cold hearts,

Including you.

Naughty imps on their eyes,

Cruel devils on their heads,

Cunning wizards on their lips.

Their violence I feel,

Harboring on silence.

World is a big necropolis,

In the guise of a glinting metropolis.



I wish to mourn,

Shed more tears,

But redemption never comes

To this warm heart

Molded it self to be filled by you.

For the way to the fire

It sought but never had,

Is bound down, down and down.

Devouring it like a quicksand

But never grants death nor life.



If time comes

That it turn to snowy pulse

Like those of the dead of the day,

Will your tears and the roses

Finally be offered mine?