Is there an answer in those blank pages? They got soaked when I accidentally spilled some teardrops mixed in ink, now drying them under the solisequious poem. Answers to the unanswered utopia that I once dreamt of on night of lost stars, nexion of pandemonium calling me.
I was never a speck of dust until I discovered the vastness of this universe that I dwell in, against my will. Isn't it ironic how science fanatics are trying to unfold secrets of the black hole while writers are already inhabiting them and using them as portals to their poetic elysiums and crafting tales of renaissance.
I was painting my nights with happy lies with bright tints and hues of jubilance. Now I am only left with dark shades in my palette, they are painting blues and mirk. I asked the daisies to lend me some happy dyes for my happy lies on dark nights; they asked for a gleeful poetry about them and unfortunately I have never written one on them.