By the end of the day
You have a streetlight falling from the mesh of the window
A Dead plant, who was named after a song of happiness
And walls, who are tired by holding a straight white gate
Amid them when you sit, and look at them with pity
They aren’t even concerned
As you are the Fine laying dust
On The pink wooden shelves
Where the,
Glass bottles stand tall in the fear of drapes that lie next to them
One touch, of them
Is enough to break Them
Into pieces of art
To whom poets will call
A shattered reflection; distress
I feel the
Same
Every time the glass breaks and lose a part of it
I’ve never felt bad for them, neither they did
Now
Think of the time
When you stared at the last matchstick
As if it was a burning guilt
When you just waited for an aid to cover your fresh wounds
A hand with fingertips of comfort and warmth
And a coldness that’d collect the embers of your guilt
Yes I do too, have secrets sewn on my lips,
concealed in the color of my pen’s ink
Oh, dear honey glazed secrets
People will see you and die
They’d want to choke you and sigh
But, see,
You’ll become a part of their thoughts, their poems
The wrong places that for a moment will feel right
Like an evening that holds a glass brooch shine
They’ll always welcome you with dusty cuffs and tired eyes
And then finding you
In a cold room where prayers sit in the corners
Looking at you
With
Subtle sight
They’ll touch you with their rusty joints
And would desire
To kill you
Like a kiss of a parasite