Twilight’s hush, shadows play, promises of dawn, now fade away. A heart, a web of dreams and dread, Words of stars, now silent, dead.
A creeping vine, Wraps around, a silent sign. In waking hours and in sleep, A memory, a secret to keep.
Not a gentle touch, but a phantom grip, Cold and relentless, a tightening slip. A glimpse in corners, a trick of light, Butterflies of iron, day and night.
A stormy sea, dubious waves, crashing endlessly.
A thief in the night, Steals away peace, out of sight. The heart races, a silent storm, Butterflies of iron, cold and enorm.
© Shree Mukherjee