There are some faces, that etched on your soul,
No matter where you go,
You search for them in every vessel you come across,
When you find a slight relegating horror of their existence,
You latch on them,
like vain ghosts, trying to reminiscence their lost Amazon,
All you ever find, the relative degrees of separation,
between you and your lost Kingdom,
An unkempt realization,
How, your obscurant world is still bespoke acumen of their genius,
How, those eyes have snared your mind
That, it continues to play schizophrenia with your wits.
But one day darling, you will realise,
The bitter truth,
There is no enigma of letting go
You never let go.
Because, there is always Hope,
hidden in Pandora box.
Sojourning thousand versions of them,
Either in your parallel or in their equidistant.