Was it always between us this way
how our oblivion sways
amidst sun rays and clay
like a flower bouquet
in a clay pot upon display?
or was it my sweet dreams
that brought this nightmare
to day?
Are these undergrowths and gardens,
heaven, the dream of God
I behold?
Maybe we sugar code ourselves
to blindfold
the bitter taste of these withered windows
swapped with embroidered draperies
that unfold
to effloresce the outlines
in marigold.
Now all the candies are leaked away.
maybe death is all that there is to say,
maybe this nightmare
day after day
is a debt we ought to pay
a convict
upon the ambit of his sways,
maybe not to be, in the only way to be,
maybe it is just me
in this hellhole who is free,
an error, a mistake,
a bruised heart, full of aches,
a black ship
on the sea of snowflakes,
Maybe my fineness is crude,
my aura is another smell,
maybe all these are for I am not buying what they sell,
maybe a big heart is the death's artesian well,
maybe a big heart is a farewell to this hell,
the summoning call
of the death knells.
