Should I author an expression
for us all to know when I’m gone?
Or should I grey another day
Or rather yet depart undone?

Wilt with time, in thoughts of you
Till stones are silt and finer still.
What use is it to tell the world
When you’re hard to believe, hence true?

My illusion of alphabets
Won’t you evolve to flesh and dew?
For they call our romance baseless
And me—a writer by pure excuse.

But if you do, step out of my head
I’ll lose your beauty, you’ll lose my mind
So, damn them my love, O stain of my
Pigment of Imaginations.

-Shaxeb S.