with a pen in her hand
and hope in her heart
doodling patterns in the makeshift paper of her life
waiting, just waiting for the things that never come to her...
The moon was her quill,
its beams the ink in her words
and they moved on
with the speed of light
tracing words on the parchment of her heart...
Sleep was a bliss that wont come;
for tears obstructed her closing lids
so she kept them open,
with the hope that the air will burn them out
but the dust in the air stings hers eyes all the while...
Dreams were a tragedy she couldn't escape;
for they kept flashing on the inward eye-
one that she hasn't yet lost to the world
showing images impossibly untrue
illusions of a future she couldn't have...
Smile was a past she craved;
her eyes sat in constant hope of reflecting it,
her face aching to be lit again
with a happiness that wont play peek-a-BO;
tired, so tired of life and its games...
Thoughts were the devil that never left;
sitting and retrospecting- what she had, what she lost
with sanity the only thread binding her to life
she goes on- with nothing but a faint trace of her originality,
she goes on- struggling on the makeshift paper of life...