Loneliness transcending, ripping through stark days,
One at a time, lights are blinding the ways,
Silhouettes drifting, yet we’re static within,
Insinuations prescient, of a storm akin,
Nonchalant in oblivion, November is dead,
Guided by supernovas, to death even we’re led.
Testaments fade, were we or were we not?
Innuendos plenty, yet we chose to be a frozen clot,
Memories disappear, only poetry will chime – of
Endearments lost, and how we’re losing time.
– Rakshit Lal