Last night when the earth gave birth to the night, my breath consoled the cry under the moonlight, with zephyr of memories I met a poet, alive with stories. A poet with a fragile heart, numb eyes who was engrossed finding the crystals of stardust between the fearsome truth of night. I asked him to signify his literature with crimson stains of horizon.
The aesthetic reality of his untamed poems was Metanoia phrase bleeding to kiss my imperfect ending of tears. He was astrophile with 1000 miles away from his love diving every night to scribble the proximity of half burned secrets.
With fear of losing hopes I screamed at his reality and damaged his presence questioning , // What is love?// The twitterpated philocaly of his Moira smiled at me with nostalgic flames, and answered .. ‘A blind thought of truth we feel, innocence we fall for,a breath of fragile pieces and at end a meal of melancholic words we survive on.'