“I’ll not write to you”

The womb of patience stretches darkly,
In the manner of an anxious ocean,

Ready to devour the fallen moon. 

If my words could’ve a soul,

While I am writing to you;

She will renounce her cloak of shyness.

Like someone recovered from dyslexia, 

She will be with a sharp euphoric taste of clarity.

There, you will see me at my pinnacle, 

Every piece & breath set & torn for you.

You will touch the gashes, silence had inflicted.

You’ll see;

How in a day centuries walk by,

How the waiting soil of hopes trembles.

You’ll learn,

The pointed heels of time have no mercy.

You, my canvas, have no mercy,

You don’t let me spread in all my colours,

You don’t let me complete my picture.

I’m incoherent like a thirst-riddled man,

For whom, there is no configuration of peace,

On his parched tongue, a new language emerges

It’s fear coated in yearning before everything turns blank.

Yet, How you’ll know? 

How you’ll know?

I’m not going to write to you; 

You’re a fabled home in a magic land,

There’s no secret door to you

Except my heart.

But,

The womb of patience has burst 

And devoured me.

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