That day I woke up at 6:07 am and saw my broken alarm clock near my bed. The minute hand and hour hand were lying down on my bed with some ragged words. They looked sad and supine. I tried to embrace them but their flimsy hiraeth were pushing them towards a bonfire of holocaust.
Those words were uncoloured and fragile. Suddenly they started begging infront of me. "Turn us into the metaphors. Place our backbone inside your balladries. Hide our tiny pinions beneath the syllables of your sonnets. I tried a lot to set them down with some unclouded verses. But I failed I failed and I failed.
They burnt inside that heartless bonfire and some lapsed zephyr led them towards the necropolis and with some grey lilacs and black jasmines I visited their tombstones and they were blaming me.
_still_in_messWooow!!! This is just brilliant !! The start gave a breeze to think out wide !! That bonfire things was something went fabulous ♥️ I loved the way when Those words said your didn't turn them into metaphors.. You are incredible