The heat around, lullabies the jubilant,
Sings the nocturnal to sleep.
Vapourizes the sweat of mine into you, yours into me.

Sweet was the taste that reminds me of your skin,
Sour was your core;
You clothed so spicy,
But bitter were your lips,
As you whispered you glimpsed Hope.

Would Hope bring forth this heat,
Suffocating, sweaty,
Devoid of air any-
yet addicts, depresses.

Is it Despair then?
The tumbling motion,
Ever retrogressive,
Past crumbling skyscrapers into atoms,
To a colloid of Anti-Brightness.

Is Despair not cold?
A chilling, shaking hand-
Skin withered, cut, wounded, ******;
Gangrene, pus, hair-draped;
Which claws up the ******* to the throat,
Feels the very pipe of wind, presses;
Pressure, pain, excruciating-
As chokes the distressed damsel while drinking the poison.

Well, supposedly, the heat might be the rage,
Which vaporized all,
And that left behind might be the despair, cold,
As I glimpse Death.

-Ruksana Saryak