How long would I play the broken lyre,
the dissolved metaphor of weeps?
you are frequent in my soft bones
with foul dreams, are you beatific?
I stroll on the paths you left behind,
The melancholic eyes of doves only
remind me of its seasonal deaths
with sad songs and windy illusion.
The torn sail in the breast tossed in
reverie thrives the venture ,
Your kisses empower the molten
bow and burn the shade of tears.
The surface grim, the aesthetic day,
For whom the owl cries in the bush
In such a cloudy night is divine…
My thumbnail predicts the winter
When my eyes drag pains to retina
to see your ghostly race more than
your smiles in cadence..
Engrossed in the fragile skeleton
of old thoughts
You still search for a new moon in the
ascetic sleep of my lone emotion!

Copyright@Kamrul Islam

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