This is the place, a city average Where he frequents. Here lies another memory lurking on A fairy of delight, lived as a lovely lass. Now it is his place of work Where destiny brought him alike A fading odour of another Whose absence is more of her presence’s power.
He knows the limits of the city And its heart; where jostling Stories of new woven love give no respite To him as the same roads and station reverberate The feelings old, which someone stole. He resolved not to return again to same city fold, Leading to a torn portrait, old and worn.
metaphysical impulse ensues through the flames of resistance shun its existence etched beneath the tapestry of loosened conclaves alone in desperation in the night heavy sounds of cosmic illumination in temples of fire reaching ever higher on point locked in
As I walked back to my house, i heard a stranger that passed me by mumbling numbly to himself about why a sidewalk will never unfold itself near the end of a routine and then become a fretwork of shadows.
It’s those sultry days that sooth my soul, In the searing heat, empty like after birth we would bath, Fear of appearing odd, the taste of the sweet waters, Oblivious of each other’s different destiny, Our foggy minds leading the
As the tram runs on the rails, Weather bitten houses emerge telling tales, Revolutionaries’ urge for freedom, Idealism in poetry and fiction, Reminiscent of immortal singers, Dancers in their grace, Tears trickle down in claustrophobia; yearning for a home which