6 october 2019
Concealed Fever
It is raining.
The water colors.
I miss the ache.
When, to wear a crimson
dot on forehead, the sky
had become a bride.
Destiny fractured.
Why did't I tell the lies
to achieve the greatness?
Not my effects. I stare
blankly at your portrait.
Blaming the conceptual
crisis, you cannot speak the truth.
Weaving a web of unseen
threads, you hold a poem
ready to take a flight.
18 september 2025
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17 september 2025
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16 september 2025
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16 september 2025
absynt
16 september 2025
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15 september 2025
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14 september 2025
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13 september 2025
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12 september 2025
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9 september 2025
absynt