Sunday, 8 May 2016

About those nights

when you are tired and awake.
To seek,
Is a sin,
We all are bound to make.
With all the thunders inside our cores.
Come out,
For once;
And strike a bolt.
It is in the moment, 
You hear something;
You somewhat fear the most.
Right in that oblivion,
It finds you a home.
A place which you once couldn't remember;
Had in its space still reserved a dome,
For you,
Asking myself after all this time,
Is it for real a sin and a crime.
Sing a song. 
Holding our fists tight for too long.
With all the sweat going down our palms.
That was the last time,
When you were right there in my arms,
Right there,
There in,
My arms.
With the blink of an eye,
All of it vanished in a dream.
It appeared no less than a sour milk with a cream.
That was the last time,
Where and when the culprits were found;
Other than that,
 They were forbidden to be around.
With all being said,
With all being done.
It was the last time when,
The mind hymned what the soul had sung.
And ever,
May it be known,
It wasn't a sin 
To walk with what's your own.
And forever,
It may never be unknown,
It is a crime,
To be lost in a place which you call your