Sacrosanct air, violet toes touching , spamming grounds
An eggshell face, with polka-dots
this family is vintage.
With bewildering tales, this air becomes scissor-talks,
A temple is burnt,
A miscarriage occurs,
The soil is pale black, the tremors are afraid
to knock the window pane.
You and I see this
We carry the stimuli of paranoia.
Splinters of forgotten prayers are stuck
to this void eye
Your brown eye,
my black eye,
What aftermath we plan?
Here, a lizard is awakened to walk across the parched souls
Here, a coffin is opened.
So we plan to walk into the land of oblivion words
where Grey- is the colour.
©My valiant Soul