Poetry

Dying inside, every
day, inch by inch, to save
the silent lips.

Only the moon will see
the weird verbalism of
a narrative.

We are the gypsies,
restless, homeless― traveling
in the shadows of stars.

The act was
suicidal. You were always
talking to wind that
would never listen.

Trick of game
was frivolous. You would
sleep in moonlight alone.

The gossips morphed.
You were an angel without
wings, wandering on hills
crying.