There is a memory-infested brick street with your name etched like a blazing symbol-like your eyes, named before you, but I'd like to believe after you. Now and then it floats in dreams, trapped in a strange quagmire of fright, drowning homes and my love in that street filled with coffin-like homes, people wait for love like the night sky waits for the white moon. Time hides in the chimes of wrecked clocks and morning comes like a harpoon. The broken strings of a forgotten guitar reminiscence the melody of wireless love-from eye to sky, sky to high, quite often, on the wings of a glorious afternoon.
© Jaspreet Mann
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