Lily-speckled rooms full of ivory dust, walls made with darkness and rods glinting under the summer sun, insipid and quiet. Your hands linger on the broken plaster like a blind man trying to apprehend the beauty, there is no sense of entitlement to reality. Time dripped from the faucet, like muddy water, unkempt and forlorn, your heart was an unbloomed magnolia, the water never made your roots grow. At night when the city sleeps, your eyes scroll down the static screen of a white creature, there is nothing but quietness, a deafening clamor at the back of your body, where your spine rests peacefully. You can never feel at harmony, the vice has a way of creeping into your skin like a leech, this terrible silence is born, of feeling unalive, at every breath you take hesitatingly. I cannot remember the last time I prayed, last time I felt holy, often I think I am becoming like a demon, merciless, feral and somewhat quiet. Faith is another form of destruction, for what should a demon have faith in, if not the dark thoughts that haunt us overnight. If you listen carefully, you will hear lost voices drowning, empires tumbling down, a madman with a knife running around, a house in fire, people talking about you, anxiety miring her claws deeper into the veins, purple skies demented by corpses falling down, and the vicious silence your mouth is acquainted with. The world is like a huge cavern, where I am lying underneath the moss and grime, lost, but travelers always leave a lantern and as I feel for the light, my memory becomes the bronze-silver ache I hid. So I dream, I dream and keep pondering one day, maybe the Gods will bleed and so will I, crystallize myself in hope and love.
Instagram ID- solivagant_soul__
Reader, artist and sometimes a procrastinator.
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