Slow death to you my dear.
Of dancing demons
And sad spirits.
Angels in hell,
Demons of heaven
Is death the epitome of existence?
Is existence not slow death?
A life of colours had I imagined.
Imagination so rich
It feels almost like reality.
Reality is fantasy
Fantasy is an illusion
For things to make sense
This poem is not for you
It is for me.
In a senseless world I find myself in
What are mere words of sense,
Sense, shall I not seek
There's beauty in me.
Slow death to you my dear.
Shall your heart rest
Amidst the waves of the Pacific
Shall your soul be of souls
Swallowed by the sand.
Neha Bharali 🌻
(Remember me in November, when the cold bothers you, know it doesn't bother me no more)