Monday, March 30, 2015

Living Like a Dead Moth


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. 

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