i I sat under the yew tree holding a cup of cold heartbreak and some glided lies of my beloved. Some tilted dark clouds were there covered with gulping night and murmuring trepidations. My fugacious childhood was there behind the darkness and watching me with silence and a breeze of twenty third monsoon, was imbuing my panoply.
ii I mixed them inside its fleshy berries of that yew tree by its needle-like leaves. The mixed colour was so different. Neither blue nor green. Neither white nor brown. I had never seen that kind of colour anywhere. A harbinger was passing by while my heart was beating too loud and I couldn't listen the whispers of phantoms.
iii Abhorring the cunning fragments of furtive life, I started to write something on the palimpsest of a Laurel without a beam of sunlight, without a room lamp. A firefly helped me to see my quill in the blackness. I wanted to write about truth but they buried it inside its abdomen.
iv Again I wrote about the lies of love and euphoria. My galaxy was crying because of stolen love. And I, an ungrateful human, was portraying love with lies. My couch was mourning for lost euphoria. And I, an unthankful menace, was painting the sky with azure euphoria.
v A poet, I'm , who was portraying lies on woebegone boulevard and some humming sighs were there to listen to the melodramatic exhales of my freakish despair and intractable ennui.
//I told you darling not to break my heart. I'm very good at poetrying//