The bones of their dreams
are incinerating
in showers of depression;
The sky of their thoughts isn't blue anymore
with choices of the words;
The sound comes
from the ocean of their hearts
is splitting into silence,
but roses are still red with
warmth of their tears.
When sonnet said,
"I can never be your friend"
and rhymes have cast me away...
I wrote a poem with verse of anxiety,
which freed me
from the grace of false Gods,
took my soul to the river of soliloquy
and cleansed me
from the inseparable.
The time stood still,
and with both my eyes opened
I found myself near
a poet's pen.
