• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 02
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These days my nights are
earmarked by surreal dreams
where the cerulean skies are not kissed
by the rain-bearing clouds

where the deep vastness of the skies
are not reflected in the swirls of your eyes
where the azure shades of the days
are not a welcome sight
for my parched heart anymore

Now everything is artificial and simulated
like my surreal dreams
days are elongated
twisted and morphed
for us to gulp this artificial reality

when the blue skies are nothing
but a thin tarp of cerulean shade
suspended over our heads
and those cumulus clouds are nothing
but soft blobs of cotton suspended
with a thin wire
those bottles with sharp red caps
are nothing but poison in the oceans



And we, as always, are living in denial
bobbing our heads
chest-thumping towards the destruction
and telling our vain heart
that it will rain someday
and our eyes will be moist again