☽⇉𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚃𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎.

I never understood the meaning of any question answered,
But no one will ever share the same discombobulation,
For mine has been a life of much shame.
Digging my grave are the assaults of apprehension.
Blank stares all around, yet a pounding of the heart
And I don't feel cold anymore.

No one seated beside me on this dreary night,
But I had no reason to crave society,
Not when I had the setting sun by my side.
Pen in hand, scribbling so furiously my heart took flight,
Pouring out my desperation onto a sheet of paper as I
Learnt how to be nothing, the wind, the sky.

A pile of torn up paper in front of me,
Like the time I destroyed my unfinished stories
Written during the depths of isolation.
Pits of bottomless horror feigning childlike simplicity
Brushed away like another nursery rhyme, except this time it feels
Right.

The moon gleamed out of the corner of my eye,
A figment of my imagination for it is still bright.
Perhaps that is what keeps me satisfied,
A deviant constantly prowling in the night,
Trying to guess how it must be to live the life
of a human being under the golden rays of light.

There were days when I drank coffee at five
In the morning, and though it may be childish,
I can't seem to live in simple compliance-
I struggle with the world as I wait for the sun to rise.
Everything passes, unaware of the hidden desire
To pause this fleeting moment of time.

Another victim of a transitional period between life and death.
How much of this wretched agony do I have left?
Words in a poem arbitually devised
Where did time go, what was I doing all this while?

Ignoring my first impulse to refuse to answer,
What was it that I truly wanted?
Maybe it is to enjoy the night, like a newborn child extending
Their wings, basking in the exhilaration of their first flight.

Well, I don't have an answer to that yet.
But maybe I'll learn how to craft a pair of wings from paper-
And I'll write until I land on the moon again,
Someday, once more.