• lady_midnight 58w

    My appetite for petty words had died few years ago, when rose colored glasses were trending and reality was a highway taken by few. Since then, half written love letters lay naked on the table, covered in dust bites, a courtesy of time.

    Phrases and their meanings have become a conspiracy theory, waiting to be unraveled and consumed. My forks and knives had started to rust; if not for those cooked verses, I'd have starved.

    I have dishonest tales, bound in time, lying around somewhere in my mind's shore. The clock is ticking, tauntingly, as I stare at my wrinkled hands desperate to feel the petite pen's warmth. Sheets are smooth as sand, and the words are crashing like lonely waves coming home.


    Won't make much sense :/

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    When I'm gone,
    Turned to ashes and dust,
    And the wind picks up rhymes,
    Trapped in my bones,
    Remember the night,
    I learnt to fly,
    And gave symphony to poetries,
    Forgotten in time.