Chances were bleak if I l get back to myself
Everything I had touched once, was fading
Like a spectrum of colors from blue to white
And on , and on with no identity of its own.
I had left Istanbul even when the memories did
Not stop haunting me like an ever ending wave of water
That flows with no set limit. But it does. Regardless
I missed his faith that was never to be endured or touched
But I missed it because I had believed in that neutrality
The surroundings which was once ours.
Which he devastated with his hand on my face
Pasted like a painting in a world of no different
Than a dead soul which stinks like a moth.