“It will pass. But it's heavy and it hurts"-
I tell myself as I watch my chest rise and set in the mirror like a glowing red ball that trespasses her loneliness to keep her shine.
Nothing's still.
The river never stayed neither did the breeze from the heavens,
the rose wilted in a day with troublesome children,
and even the most flamboyant butterflies ceased to exist after three summer afternoons.
But it must be graceful to die pretty.
The old River had neither a shrink nor a crease,
the Breeze from the heavens poured in music to the sore ears that begged for mythical bliss,
Rose- the epitome of lady romance, pleasing for the hearts to be torn apart,
Butterflies, not a word to be said or taken,
soulful rhythm eaters whose gaze always lingered in...