Infinitesimal part of a throbbing life
stuck in a free falling elevator —
a sudden gush of red, filling the aura
through n dimensions.
Ink, or blood — quite difficult to decipher.
On nights,
when the sky isn't sleepy enough,
I live this story in loops,
with Lana playing in the back of my head.
At times, I wish, I could release the lid,
and be free of the free fall,
other times, I wish I could just let go,
and drown with the calm that overhears me.
Then, someone whispers to me:
hope has different names, and
can come through unexpected corridors.
Maybe, I just need to watch closely;
on nights
when the sky isn't sleepy enough.
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