The lilac sky in hues of pale blues
Crying each day for desserts
In the deserted lost town .
Under the lamp post of hopes
I still stand among castigated parchments.
Those were dreams that I weaved .
The winter has come,
With my balmy breaths I am counting
On my fingers some days of spring.
Reminiscing the lush green expanse,
This everlasting cold has choked the life.
The lavender sea ripples stories
Just like bending bones dying,
Wishes look dead like a corpse
Unable to breathe in the cold.
The ashing embers still burns though
Reminding the silver lining.
‘Beckon me home,dear! Doth when the tides fall.
I would be home, surely living.’
These apparition of mirths still exist
In the town where the lamp post exists .
Living hasn’t been so difficult to survive .
But will surely breathe again.