Squeezing the lust-laden nights
I drink the juice of my livelihood…
with dreams in coma, with dignity in grave,
I breath an air of death…
Mine is a tale writ on streams
running here, there, and nowhere
nobody cares to catch it, sit
and read it… rather they
visit me in the dead of night
write their own tale on my body
and go, sinking me into the
oblivion of their memory…
Like the petals of rose
raped by the cruel hands of storm,
lying I am, breathing an air
of death…