it was with every wisp of smoke and the withering hope that i kept turning my aspiration to ashes
the sort of wreckage, i could put a stop on but would not
my lipstick tainted cigarette was now turning plural each day and more so
eloquently narrated stories in a language i would not speak
the apparent verbosity had now started to lack empathy
as i flickered the optimism like dust in the thin air
it daydreamed me into going back to an era and pave way for a havoc
that hadn’t finished business, said it was the right cynic thing to do
or was it really just a sweet formal invitation
to the shattering reality to visit and grant me a beautiful death yet again?
who is to say though, whether i was embracing or gambling the end of me
wasn’t it just a metaphor after all?