Clouds are tyrants which carry thin blankets,

capturing flaring sun glares,

enveloping skies with night shade blossoms,

An umbrage that whispers a silent obscurity.

 

While foundations covering dead soil,

still bereft of onset footprints,

frigid cloaks on windowed panes,

buildings with empty essenses.

 

Power lines not surging forward,

Just cords like immobile jungle vines,

The cars lay inert at the bottom

of defective street lamps.

 

Demolised staircases everywhere,

Cracked and chipped like ruptured vases,

A chilled orchestrated voiceless melody begins,

Reigns casted by unfulfilled wishes,

Where the unheard is hidden within layered walls.

 

Glass mountains are skyscrapers,

The strongest metal decaying with rust,

bridges once crossed emerge from ocean floors,

Where has everyone disappeared to?

 

There is life in dyed green fields,

A conversation from rooted trees,

Flowers called by the season,

They still found a reason,

To rise up and awake once more.