Pic Source: Deviantart.com
Lyric is dead in a petal for being petal
and I find it in a wiped leaf on the glass
A leaf with veins catapulting child drops, on being wind kissed
It shows: the reminder not only lies in
Knowing toxin and being toxic speak different
but not in a wall with distempers, as it imbibes much
to stay, to sight, to take in and thereby,
call one a poem.
If I call as such, what will it make of me?
Have I matured so much as to neglect a hue and still pen it?
The leaf nods but in a horizontal breeze.
‘Stop trying too hard. You already left (my) imprint on your bed for Me.
You neglected one dew for the other’.