A glass, emptied and dried
Let me pour in it, my stream of words
A flow from my heart,
The silences… “Oh! Stop being repetitive!
These are clichés, archived!”
Nights, filled with blasted sighs,
Stories told, just to be laughed at,
A painted face peeping through
The door, a beckoning sign,
Dimmed streetlight, lips coated with lies.
Hazy subways and streets so dark
No! I am not a ludophile!
Owls cry louder than ever,
Stories untold, letters washed away,
“Trust? No… never…” moments of despair lurk.