Pellucid petals of lust,
I, lean over to smell the paper,
Where I lament my dead hopes
My pen is pervicacious
inclined to savour the smoke ignited.
The words are my soul,
Insatiable I am dipped in its white corona.
Cathartic particles of serenity forms
as I write my love,
The paper, the pen, the paper-cuts
soaks me in its sullen charm.
And I declare my writing — my muse.
The intoxication within is valiant enough to infuse my pen with the darkest of the tales to tell,
My heart is surreptitious at times, hiding even the lamest of smiles,
as I write, the emotions open up like the blooming of bluebells, now I know what all troubled me
The white sheet was dark before my ink decorated it with my diverse butterflies,
The sheet is adorned now conquering the dust, flickering with cuts of heart
as I write, I learn the truth
and so my pen does not break
I write, I write.