I am dying.
With the crimson gentle stroll,
of the parched winter glow.

I am dying.
Of the thorns dwelling within the whisper's den,
and the menacing spikes of my broken pen.

I am dying.
From the agonizing tempest that pervaded my soul,
it is no more a riddle; an Apocalypse is born.

Fading sunlight in the horizon
Falling leaves in breezy autumn
While nature paves way for hope
I wish this self to be lost and forgotten
Similar to tides, uncontrolled and heightened
A lone wolf yowling at her sight
Adjoined by the constant urge to be isolated
Fervent to cut loose the rope of gloom
Like a lost traveler in search of dwelling
A barren land thirsty for rain
Tired of this skin and mind
To devastation this heart is intertwined
What is lost darkens my soul
Your voice and memories cut deep through
Your brown hair blowing in wind
Hazel eyes sparkling in the sun
Echoes of your footsteps,
Deepness of your voice
Still surrounded by your existence
Harmed and scarred, I want to leave
Fragile lives and untamed hearts
Filled with fiery of desert storm
I want to run, away from your hue
Before I turn into an emotional massacre
Did I really deserve? Did you really want?
Let the leaves of our memory fall
And the blossoming florets wilt
Clinging to hope with intemperate self
Permit yourself to grow vines by own
Ashen and burnt, bury us in ground
Let youraelf grow either as roses or thorns
Amongst all this I realize what Rumi said
Nostalgia is a powerful witch indeed.

I'm sorry
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ginger bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof

Beguile is the way of the wine
Past those hillsides we climbed
Out of the forest
And into the land
Towards another festival
Of melodies within our reach

You’re so close
Yet so far away
As we dance in the front
But on opposite sides
Temperance and gaud
Affection and disinterest

Though it matters now
This too, will become trivial
Just give it a year or so
Before the secrets display
A forever changing idol
The cyclical ephemera
In the eye of God