For i see a tree behind a house made of clouds
a slow whisper entrapped beneath the soil
that never moves an inch
a state of wellness only getting harrowed
like a static voice losing the soft cotton-like warmth
each day where the bells pause to chime.
We come across rooms full of stars and nights
and things even harsher
Imaginations of people breaking apart
or true maybe
The slice of pain is where it must have all begun
numb and electric
Everything seems on fire
where it ends
where it begins
no one knows.
Thins behind the valley seem plain
with ordinary roses
ordinary chirpings and shadow.
hallucinations or reality?
Those were the days of love.
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For memories does not spark my romance with life
Nor do they slip through the curtains of moisture.
All these years, even when I was a teenager,
I watered the dying roses and Orchids
Flushing a spew of lightning and rock salt
People became a mystery to me, leaving me stained
Behind the sturdy brown doors, a knobless door
And then began a veracious knitting
of words with emotions
I popped millions of pills, smoked cigars
Innumerable open wounds made me ugly, they said so.
Placid openings spewed disgust, Torrents powerful.
So, memories clasp you, twist and give a sudden twitch
They furl and embrace your naked soul,
Immersed in the droplets of blood and ink.
Memories are nothing but floating crisp memories.
image courtesy- My Valiant Soul