• sanyogita 182w

    We all bequeath ourselves to things which we seek as an escape.

    Read More

    In the silence of black
    I can hear the white screaming for a breath,

    In the noisy dreadful storm
    I can hear the clouds roaring for the lost blue,

    In the spring
    I can hear the fall of autumn,

    In the glitter of gold
    I can see iron and rust, their blood and life's thirst,

    In the chaos of life
    I can hear words screaming from the insides of a hidden envelope, the stamp stuck on it cries for some place,

    I can hear the lilies withering under her skin and I can see the wax dripping off her eyes as the memories within, cry hard for the dead petals.