She told me how silence can be beautiful,
And love can be loud,
Her eyes made me anxious,
and amaze of how she holds her shy and proud,
Her touch always shivered of choices,
to leave the ground or to fly for the sky,
Since it has been waiting for her round trip,
from that darkroom which sounded like a cry,
Scratched her nails on the page for infinity,
where she always find marks of dried crayon,
the past is an illusion she never believed in,
carrying the canoe of her delusional mind always floated on,
She doesn’t want a place to keep her self silent,
but looking for space where she can scream out,
Cracks at the corner of that architectural dismissal are nothing as chaos overdose all the dreams and doubt.
The changing numbers on the pages of uncountable ecliptic nights are the measures of liquid isolated on her pillow,
Which has become past and her anchors have loosen to move further for future putting all the present worries at low,
Me? I am gardening her doorway for the arrival of her impure soul, she has earned on the brutal pathway of love and wars,
Lesser words she owns now more with eyes full of pain, she is pushing her afflictions caused by her scars.
There is no stopping for her profound nature since she is no more a believer of exquisite,
Still gathering some flowers from the optimistic lake as a gesture of prerequisite.