When you don’t have any fingers to dance with your dripping tears,
and you start feeling yourself dripping into the perfumes of isolation finding no escape from it,
when you see those real visage behind those vague masks of smiles and grins,
and you start filling the ocean with those drops of silence ,
and the sky with the scars unhealed and unrevealed ,
and your reflecting smirks at you with the stories of the disillusioned fear wrapped in the curtains of naked window,
reverberating simultaneously with the stories of your stuttering beats of heart,
being played under your stained melanin with wrinkles of pain ,
and smiles with fear,
and the beauty of the moon turns to an untuned guitar,
and strings springing out with every pass of silhouetted figure on the nearby wall,
where isolation romances with fear,
and embeds their love with my vehement cheers.

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