There is a transparent ocean inside your eyes and a frozen tear on your cheek, that won't melt away for you're made of cold and dolorous flesh in which you stand. The quivering blood running in your veins isn't red, it carries the pigment of fear. Your anxiety sits in the corner, singing you lullabies, to sleep, while you hold it gently and put your head in it's lap for you've never known the address of peace. Your existence is like a wound, that won't heal and you braid a fresh noose, every night, but you fail to leave your body breathless, every time the moonlight falls through your window, wearing the scent of memories, the happy ones, haunting you the most. Breathing anguish, you walk into your garden and witness wilted daisies and their dried brown broken petals, which used to be cheery white in the past days, but those are gone, so is your love for your favourite flowers. You lie there on the bare ground, covered with dead grass, and your eyes heaved under the weight of a hundred days of insomniac nights, in which you drowned in your own tears. Soulless, you stare at the sky, as if looking for a tinge of hope, but you choke on fireflies sent by the heavens to help you, and your muffled voice, remains unheard. The pain struck in your throat, forms a poem, but your hands are too fragile to pick the quill, which your mother gifted you on your last birthday. The poet inside you, died a month back, due to the absence of metaphors in the air you breathed. Since that day, your thoughts went numb, your poems swooshed along the air and your heart broke into a million little pieces. The soil of your garden feels suffocating, eclipsing the canvas of your eyes and they shut slowly, leaving behind your corpse, carved out of agony.