The scars of my soul bleed through words in the form of poetry.
Poetry folds me in her arms
Poetry folds me in her arms. I diffuse in the lap of her words and wake from slumber with lavender smile cheekbones, and embellished fingertips, cottage skies of infinite letters and blank spaces. Some parts of me are alphabets, and some vowels. I wear letters like expensive jewels and spill milk white secrets, With few colons dispersed in the complexity of delusional life, unfolding and fabricating rise and fall. Thin sheets of clouds hover inside my conscience, and guide me to wake up from my slumber. Poetry folds me in her arms, cradles me and I am sanctified. Besides being numb.