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 .
©
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC
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 .
©
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