There is no end but only start, if I pen down the words of every broken heart.
Ink would fall short, words would start to rot.
My pain might look as light as a feather, be aware, it might get as ugly as a bad weather.
The scars on my body might heal and look better, only I and the blade know how much it cut deeper.
Eyes had lost its longing bond with dreams, nightmares molest them, as I wake up with screams.
Colours and silhouettes, both look similar, when hope meets disappointment, I guess it’s familiar.
Demons of past caress me and sing a lullaby, as I rest in it’s lap and watch angels laugh and fly.
I quiver, I long, for one such angel to come flying to me and make me strong.
I watch them in silence as they decided to flee, assuring I would be fine, now, the magic to put myself together lies in the hands of mine.
© The Heartbroken Quill