Speaking Hues

Melting Streets.

All the love songs once in whistles down the heat stream lanes,
Now into cold shivers of tormenting pain.
Once Tip toed legs to the street lamp's shelter with bag of snack,
Adorable snack of letters, so well carved with beau impulses and different tints of black.
Now home to the clutter trash bins
Feeling of roasted flesh in my skin.
Took few days for the butterflies to be dead,
With so many stitches and drooping threads.

-Anisa