It started when the eyes,
Tended the ponderousness.,
And the heart wept entire.
The burning ends, as the smell of ashes,
Fogs the scenery that I dreamt since child.
But,
The blaze caught up in the air, grew, as I smoked into it more.
It wasn't a rose, neither a home, nor the living,
The ruins of a garden, full of hope,
My art, my alchemy, my poetry,my dreams(all I could own)
Lost in a war,
Of my own reflection, for years.
And so these embers left in the corners,
Grew into flames,
In the time, when I would ramble around,
About,
The blindness of my faint-hearted courage.
YOU ARE READING
The diary
PoezieThe diary of randomly ranting someone, to get through days of melancholy or misery.
