The world doesn’t have a reference frame.
Each paradox reflects my inverted name.
The magic tree never bears rotten fruits.
Outside the paradox, they wear fabricated suits.
There isn’t a single flower that has been languishing for years.
There isn’t a single dream whose cry has been piercing hidden fears.
There isn’t a single moment cursing and instigating my shaking hand.
There isn’t a single word that causes a proud hindrance on the flowing sand.
Everything has a blooming perfection,
Everything has a natural convection, as if the journey romanticizes the sea to be waiting…
Yet, my room is surrounded by the mist of barren memories,
Yet, the mind-tree doesn’t smile for the rain drowning in social furies,
Yet, my room is engulfed with voices whose dreams have been brutally murdered,
Yet, the night is aroused by the history of burning desires being relentlessly tortured,
Yet, my room is filled with wombs of emotional predicament,
Yet, the torch-bearers are falsified by a time-bound sentiment,
Sometimes, it’s a distorted reality creeping up my body, longing for a profound calmness,
Sometimes, it’s a gloomy aftermath crawling through my poetry, breaking into fortified varnished darkness.