our story
is nothing but history
of awful events
and crimson crescents.
blasphemy was better
than never having faith
the pages were getting wetter
by the tears falling down our face.
we had the best of times
we did the worst of crimes
funny how fate got anxious
and sweeped our love out of the shore with a horrendous tide.
socially excluded
people eluded
shooting daggers
always love-drunk and staggered.
before the end of universe
we ought to reunite
rekindling the flame
which we were never meant to ignite.
YOU ARE READING
tears on my scars.
Poetrypoetry from the times when i feel dead and alive. i hear the shadows whispering, i feel the inaudible trembling, unwilling to believe, too true to disbelief. -aish
