With each detectable tick of the clock, I am becoming seemingly more privy of the fact that things may not ever be okay. The chaos may come to a temporary halt, its movements being incommodious, this time. At least, for a couple of blinks of our naked human eye. And then, all will resume as it once were. As the tale was set, as the story always goes. My very own words, like the plague will chew me raw, and spit me out at the corner of the street. Sometimes, I'll get off to the thrill of it all with the adrenaline pumping through my blood. And the other times, I'll fall straight on my face with a bloody nose and a set of broken bones. My body will take to pieces, when your mind unravels mine. I am just macerated spillikins of wrecked dreams, enclosed in tawdry washed out bandage, waiting to topple out of my enveloping constraints. I'll crawl, I'll beg, I'll do anything to have your mercy in my palms. Maybe when your touch will linger on my bare skin, will you feel the coldness that runs through my veins. Maybe you'll feel it, trembling with trepidation. We're like soft wax; melting, falling apart. My colours are oozing out of my being, they're a crimson red.
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
VEIL'D MELANCHOLY.
कविताNeither salt nor sugar settles on your tongue. Only this blood of mine does. Neither I nor she fills up your heart. Only these tears of mine do. [POETRY/PROSE]
