He was but a boy of thirteen, with shiny eyes full of dreams.
The same beautiful eyes saw his father die.
They were still the same, as beautiful as ever,
but their owner changed, aged years in no time.
With or without the dreams eyes shinned the same.
You don’t age in numbers or year.
You do age in scars, tragedies, and experience.
A single bullet is fired,
died a man,
why this, the illusion of time.
for the yearning to walk past it?
We long for a peephole,
to rip apart those curtains Continue reading “Introspection – revisited”
I am a father,
a sculpture awaiting justice
grieving my daughter
she is dead, raped
never coming back Continue reading “Her.”