I perched today in the rain of autumn's late harvest,
Nothing, nothing, nothing but travesty,
Drop after drop after drop of a stone's weightless gravity,

Pain dripped and mixed with the dead grain,
pain milky cloudy purple and insane,
pain germinates across these polluted plains,

Her dread perfume still clings to me,
The bread of her soul still stings me,
Her infertile love is the acid inside of me,

In the depths of the dead winter's heart
there lies my tormented fleeting fearful hart,
For all eternity to be hunted by love's doomed dart.



©Rangzeb Hussain