I thought once life can be sung, of the sweet years,

wished for dear ones, memories appears

with mortal beings, a mystic shadow

lurks in the dark, and I muse my flukes of scents

in the torn pages.

Life is all about dreams,

dreaming, drinking, sipping

with melancholy, where great winds

blow fair, now and then the waves leash.

Ah! It can be a land of dreams!

Alas! All in deep slumber it seems!

Perhaps, wild bees reel—shadows ceased

where some pages left to be read,

let it be dipped in gleams,

some, buried with no light

like verses of poor little mite.

A mystery box of horror chills,

Our purple hands bruised as fist,

Angels stay hidden with wings,

Knuckles stay white and twist.

Strangled breathe, last knock of lies

Hands stretched out in the sky,

Come to the death guy!

— 23/04/2023