August :Autumn's joy of auspicious ailing end

August : autumn's joy of auspicious Ailing end

Seasonal fruits that bore in every lover's room,

The proverb that get spoken hindering the secret with fumes.

The denial of course and the plastic platinum lost,

When August rose, it kept the audience to await and avail.

The fascination of troops,

And the seas to circulate the doom. 

When the facade of feeling dwell,

Autumn turn to June, flipping away from conventional ruin.

Sight of the armour,

Devoid of the plains to pastures.

Whenever, the new sun rose,

The moon simple bestow to froze.

The song of the martyr month,

The poem of the pathetic punch.

Colliding in the heaven of grave yard dust,

Arising from the show of coffins mug.

What held you up?

What is holding you down?

When the world could not trust your ferry means to delicate the fair filth,

What is keeping you to hold your head up right now?

 The fault we find in every of our faith,

The cracks we create in every crusade.

The built houses dove out the wail in Vain,

Like the way you wind in pen down your pain.

Being the candle at every lost path,

Being the blazing shine of every gloomy selecouth.

Being the daughter of Jesus during the day,

I belong to the kinfolk of hellhound who don't even pray.

Who can bring garlands in graveyard?

Who can cut their finger up, just to fit the ring?

Who can escape their own way,

When August becomes the month of September birth, Killing the vibe of January's stay.....

 Writing my name on my own notebook,

Could never help me in forgetting my own existence.

But even if I don't know I'm Lost around my way,

Who can bring me back to my rise that is meant to die a deprived death anyway?

Helping out her, to get her along the alone paths,

I got to know that I have lost my way.

Seeking someone to join me back to the home,

I stand alone, cause whom I found was darkness and none.

 Seven, the deadly number counted down to conquest the era,

My earring had fallen to erase my love for myself.

Cause when the an artist meet an amartuar once and twice,

The meetings never stop before it completes twenty nine.

As people born in nineteen ninety nine,

Can creep down to deepen the grudges of night times and sweet lies. 

As when the poetess turns her pages back to write, 

The men from that year, 

Pour the ink that turns to become poison inside.

The flicker of this rise,

Could even make a dead man cry.

When the executioners would execute their master plan,

To disclaimer the drain of gone ground tame in  fake love game, in dead end lane.

So be in the city of your dreams that dwell,

One day from heaven to heavenly hell.

Among the starts to shine in the stars to satire the saturn,

That can add six to one making another giant encounter. 

 The jokes we mocked,

To grew apart and again start.

Have fallen to become Bickering Romances of rule out,

In the trade township of moving aloud wearing worn out crowns

Dilema or dilusion?

Enigma or ilusion?

From being futile to being a part of fusion.

I never thought of harnassing the intrusion.

From gold to platinum,

From Friday's to another Thursday's,

From Paris to Buckingham,

We both were bound to break in bays of frozen heat days.

Thirteen days to go,

The denial of truth is still left to flow.

Till the moon dances awkwardly with its star partners,

Cause the sun stand alone to destroy even the departing departures.

Leeza