Walking along the cold walls of the deserted, creaky corridor,
I fill my Chillum with a pinch-full of memories by the decrepit window sill.
I smoke under the moon hiding behind the already ashamed clouds,
As if to escape being the sole witness of my same-old laments.
The cold air around my skin warms up my blood with an intense desperation
To hold the pious and benevolently pricky needle between my fingers
And stitch the cuts which integrate every inch of my human skin.
My benumbed feet walk on the scattered pieces of my blemished childhood.
My agonized warm hand still holds the thorny rose, now dead and dry,
Taking me back to the reminds of my unsullied love for a pair of virulent lips.
The motionless stone covered with the decay of some calamitous unbloomed flowers,
Reminds me of the untimely and inhuman deaths, my ill-fated eyes witnessed.
The only way to get back to the dimension where everyone resides,
Is for me to ink them all with a drop of my invisible blood, fill it in my pen,
And pour it on a sheet of paper in the most elegant script.
The journey of a writer is cursed:
he relives the torments twice but still remains alive.