A sibylline table Built of mahogany Bears a bottle On the selcouth body Emitting a Dern aura Labelled "THE MELANCHOLY"
A velvety red cloth With threads of resilience Hides the disparities Of the dusty table The bottle a perfume Phosphenes hued Smells so fresh
New emotions of grief Recharging it everyday The scent so contagious But so pleasant to smell Inspiring beautiful poetries Hiding the pain, betwixt lines
But the smell you sniff Slowly, starts getting stale But that's the thing about it It demands to be smelled You fall in it's trick swiftly And become it's prey
It's like the smile So rhapsodic, but as You get near, you can see The load curving the lips The bottle diamond adorned But dig deeper, it's coal
The mahogany table Hollow inside, from termites, Termites of self-doubt Dragging it to wear facade The facade of freshness Misleading people to Smell, and fall in trap
A trap of mistook solitude Parting them from teeny-weeny Seraphic moments of life Suddenly, the cat of heartbreak Pulls the cloth of resilience The bottle shatters to ground And the smell fills the room Painting every wall with gloom
Cries and shrieks rise around Crumpled papers in cobwebs But still there's a ray in attic Hope's my name, he says Someone closes the window And again he is lost from there.