• say_me_krish 5w

    OF NUMBERS AND DEATHS

    Tonight, when my balcony doors bring some phosphorescence towards my stygian heart which is busy enough in intonating the verses I once wrote in the rustic pages using a lit matchstick, it refuses to get some newfangled air inside since it is already addicted to the hallucinations accompanied by the aroma of wilted roses which smell of melancholy and nostalgia all around. The very axiom that some signs are overlooked when in love is being reflected to every wall of my rooms so that it echoes to the extent where death feels inevitable. I've undressed the golden attire faith wore and burnt it down to ashes near my graveyard holding wild sunflowers in the garden where blooming was prioritized earlier. But for Satan's pleasure, everything has changed over time.
    /Ninety nine, ninety eight and walking towards the balcony where nineties and eighties are drinking champagne together/

    The mellifluous melody which sung lullabies resting my head on those solacing laps and ruffled my blonde hairs with smooth hands has started roaring like a werewolf in search of a prey with paws clenched to grip the feast tightly by 12 of the blue moon nights. The clock ticks slower than before so that pain flows through my bloodstream the slowest way possible, sucking all of my halcyon days inside, while small cyanide doses of memories eject out from the lymph nodes and end up harming my thoughts and expectations, bringing death ten steps closer.
    /Miles ahead come sixties accompanying fifties n' forties n' all dirty numerals sleeping in between/

    I go deep inside the warehouse of my brain cells and find happiness stuffed inside a box with the toughest lock ever found, while scars are wearing high heels and finding their couples and cousin danseuses even in absolute darkness. Memories are sidelined in a separate corner with legs broken and face distorted by acids of rancour, and the screams of those are making me feel my fairy sides flying away towards the stellars, the ones, which children fail in counting with their elfin fingers which cannot hold more weights and numbers.
    /The distance from thirties to twenties was just a kilometer, the end of my survival is not afar from my toes/

    Nineteen, eighteen and seventeen, handling the pressures of my resumed life is no more possible as those cameras which once captured smiles has negatives which are haunting me day and night. Months feel like hours passing away from the hourglass slowly and silently; the sands seep down with the air holding my survival. Thirteen, twelve and ten, I'm choking with blood in my mouth. I try walking upstairs, but crawling like a toddler is what all I can do, but unlike the innocent one which then knew nothing but happiness in the roses back then. Nine, eight, seven, my legs disagree to move forward, my hands tremble vigorously, my heart prompts me to continue, but the brain sends wise warning sirens which are ignored, as always. I don't want to, but I want to, and I will. I have reached the terrace now.
    /Six, five, four, everything tastes sour/

    With bloodstains all around me, everything seems crimson and black to my poor sights; the visions, which I curse now for making me what I'm today. I somehow manage to walk to the corner. In total haste and rage, I throw the bag filled with expectations and memories.
    /Three, two, one, and thud! I fall too; I'm finally dead/



    ~S r i K r i s h n a  P  S | Oct 22, 2020.
    ___________________________________________________

    @raika Thanks a lot for helping me out with this ❤️

    @writersnetwork Is this on the Popular, omg❤️��(48, 5)
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    #skp_writes #pod #lullabyc #melancholyc #creativearena

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    And I was
    already dead when I actually
    wanted to die.

    ©say_me_krish