Blue lights are waning on the rooftop
My hands are wobbling and empty.
My mind chaotic,tacit and burning,
my pen falters to write a poem,
For the moon,lovers and loss are hyped.
The slovenly locks unfurled like the fantasy of a lover,
Flowing to an imperceptible universe,
She ponders between the lost and the living,
Of how much her memory preserved them.
A woman in yellow walk past her resembling the golden aura of the moon,
Her eyes bore the depth of the damned history,
the pen in her hand moved with a fervour.
Created a world of stories yet unknown to her,
and read through the opaque eyes
Her first home is now a backbone to her stories.