it's gray in a city this vivid,
the pauses and delays, furls and frenzies,
dreams take a twisted route,
according to her whims and fancies.
bare hands pen down their stories,
as the last ray fades,
while burning the midnight oil,
our fraught splinters build grim grenades.
it's sick in this city slow on remorse,
lessoning me to bet on myself without fail,
crashing into chaos on stops and slopes,
pedestrian lanes are growing pale.
jumbled work jostles for attention,
and hustling leaves a hundred scars,
we sweep the dirt under a rug,
stashing musings in glass jars.
on sullen dusks, ever so slightly,
some hearts yearn for a leap,
in a city so sour,
remembering to tread lightly,
those breaths collapse in a sobbing heap.
- isha
