GRIMACE
the grimace,
on your face;
like the shadows on the moon,
like summer, gone very soon.
Those eyes and soul, dead,
speaks a thousand words unsaid.
The heart that carries a heavy rock,
to tighten the feelings, to keep them locked;
as if the Dove has been caged,
with wings clipped, for it looks too deranged.
Skin weeping for sunlight, for umber,
after drowning in the seas of sadness and somber.
The mind amnesic to laughter and joy,
with the melancholy that always decoy.
The blue blood that runs within,
make your veins pop out of the skin;
the poignant fluids inside the brain,
make you more hellish and less humane.
the scars on your skin, like the pages of old books,
are testaments to doleful stories, making them handbooks.
The face stone cold like a porcelain doll,
with a hard smile on, behind a glommy pall;
like a nightmare that never ends, the day that never breaks.
The traction between the body, the heart and the soul aches,
like a mirror, you’ll shatter into million pieces;
scattering around like stars across the vast spaces.
- Sachin B








