It was a late night
That December, it was colder than usual
It was a late night
A late night in December
Where it all began
There's something about nights
Dark and improbable shivering down the spines
And yet, a sleep impregnated in thoughts
Dreams of a good morning, lives better and tomorrows brighter
And, that's where it all began
The desire of many a dream long lost, finding home for once
She was the solace
Her eyes eerily calm
The wrinkles enveloped in the purposely spoiled kohl and elaborate mascara
The smile she wore cut her lips oblique
Debris of a yesterday spilled across
Remnants of another, wrenched beneath the skin
She was a queen
And like every other, she wore a crown too
A crown bedazzled in agony and anguish
A crown nevertheless
The stories she flushed down the stinking urinals
The poetries she wet her crumpled bedsheets in
The life she wished was still alive
She wore them all around her neck
The pendant of a dear dead son cutting through the ribs
Scars from a fallen dusk etched in flesh, right above the navel
She was the warrior queen
He was the inferno
His eyes seething yet numb
Somewhat like the entirety of molten lava asleep in a bottomless pit
His lips had forgotten the taste of a smile
The pages he had burned off the novel
He was smeared in the ashes that bled off it
He was an alchemist
Some called him a magician, some called him a conjurer
For what remained of the mass and the mediocre
He was just another lunatic in the crashing waved of pretended busy lives
The chapter called childhood lay wronged in the wounds beneath his tattoos
Memoirs of severed strings wrapped in the singular scar smothering his lips
The ruins of an erstwhile rebellion
The crippled crimson roses from a commonplace betrayal
He would spread them across, thorough and detailed
Somewhat like canvases from an aftermath
He'd reimagine it all in monochrome
It was an unlikely affair
Or so, it seemed in the apparent skin
A queen and an alchemist
The hordes of worldly people condemned them
But then, they had scripted their worlds in themselves
The rest, drowned in the rainbow after the rains
He made her the canvas and the muse
She made him the art and the artist
Away from the pastel lives of the neon walls
They found love in black and white
He was the fire that cleansed her
She was the tranquil he sought refuge in
Far from a world of make-beliefs
They found themselves in the differences
And, when it all felt right for once and ever
And, when the habit of being had turned home
It all fell apart, bits and crumbs that would never make sense put back together
Somewhat like a compulsive turn of acts from a repetitive history
The desires born off a robed night were buried in the naked daylight
The winter was gone at the knock of spring
It was a change of seasons; a hundred thousand lives were all the same
Somewhere, in the middle of the deafening noises of a maddening mediocrity
Something could never be the same ever again
Thirty four days of winter were a lifetime somewhere
That December, it was colder than usual
It was a late night
A late night in December
Where it all began
There's something about nights
Dark and improbable shivering down the spines
And yet, a sleep impregnated in thoughts
Dreams of a good morning, lives better and tomorrows brighter
And, that's where it all began
The desire of many a dream long lost, finding home for once
She was the solace
Her eyes eerily calm
The wrinkles enveloped in the purposely spoiled kohl and elaborate mascara
The smile she wore cut her lips oblique
Debris of a yesterday spilled across
Remnants of another, wrenched beneath the skin
She was a queen
And like every other, she wore a crown too
A crown bedazzled in agony and anguish
A crown nevertheless
The stories she flushed down the stinking urinals
The poetries she wet her crumpled bedsheets in
The life she wished was still alive
She wore them all around her neck
The pendant of a dear dead son cutting through the ribs
Scars from a fallen dusk etched in flesh, right above the navel
She was the warrior queen
He was the inferno
His eyes seething yet numb
Somewhat like the entirety of molten lava asleep in a bottomless pit
His lips had forgotten the taste of a smile
The pages he had burned off the novel
He was smeared in the ashes that bled off it
He was an alchemist
Some called him a magician, some called him a conjurer
For what remained of the mass and the mediocre
He was just another lunatic in the crashing waved of pretended busy lives
The chapter called childhood lay wronged in the wounds beneath his tattoos
Memoirs of severed strings wrapped in the singular scar smothering his lips
The ruins of an erstwhile rebellion
The crippled crimson roses from a commonplace betrayal
He would spread them across, thorough and detailed
Somewhat like canvases from an aftermath
He'd reimagine it all in monochrome
It was an unlikely affair
Or so, it seemed in the apparent skin
A queen and an alchemist
The hordes of worldly people condemned them
But then, they had scripted their worlds in themselves
The rest, drowned in the rainbow after the rains
He made her the canvas and the muse
She made him the art and the artist
Away from the pastel lives of the neon walls
They found love in black and white
He was the fire that cleansed her
She was the tranquil he sought refuge in
Far from a world of make-beliefs
They found themselves in the differences
And, when it all felt right for once and ever
And, when the habit of being had turned home
It all fell apart, bits and crumbs that would never make sense put back together
Somewhat like a compulsive turn of acts from a repetitive history
The desires born off a robed night were buried in the naked daylight
The winter was gone at the knock of spring
It was a change of seasons; a hundred thousand lives were all the same
Somewhere, in the middle of the deafening noises of a maddening mediocrity
Something could never be the same ever again
Thirty four days of winter were a lifetime somewhere
No comments:
Post a Comment