Not a name to call...

My lone skies...




The sun burnt, spoilt palette

Crumbs of mischievous pastels, amongst...











The tired habit of a busy city...





Rusted men and weathered concrete, put aside

A wild rain, and the fragrance...











The search of an alley, undisturbed


The glass wings rested, on my skin...










The stale market would miss me, today...



I wouldn't call you a name.....