lost.in. winters.

Misty hills, hauntingly beautiful: Shimla, Himachal Pradesh
Peels of orange zest
stuck to my tongue,
shading my mouth.
cold, frivolous air
slapping my cheeks,
lamps of cold night lit.
I sit and observe,
how summers played with my brain,
almost erratic,
now the winters will do the same
an art of regeneration,
something lost,
Pain comes from the folds of dark corners.

Tunnels and swamps of chemical emotions
peeling inner skin,
chop chop chop
a sound of pain,
winters are like this,
they fumble inside your body,
like a thing so beautiful.
Published by

my valiant soul

A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times. Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied. My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others. Curator of Olive Skins.


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