Her eyes are snapping, not that heart.
All those moans dwells on smokes,
Memories kept on encountering ecstacy.
Silence, loned truth for our virgin reality .
The soul ached badly, treasuring melodies.
The body sighs flipping over pages of tragedy.
My imaginations sour high up in the barren sky
Dipping thy scars in murmuring streams of fantasy
The tourturing regrets essayed down blind elegy.

My burning aims are smeared in thundering miseries
With unholy sweats trickling down thy dying exuberancy.
The more I heal, the more I crave being in serendipity

The world is moving on without me.