Flowers, you see how they bloom? Removing all the gloom Their sight nears and embraces Mine weary figure Takes me away like a groom To metamorphose The obnoxious cold into serene warmth During my season of winter Flowers, they bloom When you provide not a deleterious touch When you provide not a wound When they aren't plucked Letting them abide where they belong Letting them embrace their true colours Whether red or brown When they aren't plucked For all sorts of irascible selfish purposes Oh then to love itself it proposes True beauty with true purity it poses Turning sorrow transient A harmonious aura in the ambience Flowers look pretty blossoming When they walk the ladder they curated It's agony alongside all If not vanished, definitely abated But when your own conscience Disapproves of freeness and is now animosity When those fingers interlaced With heavenly grace Turn into pallor pales Turn into fatality The flowers, no longer where they belong Their peace and tranquility Now so far agone It's pretty so it was plucked Underneath your heinous control it was tucked Results? A dried rose, a dead verse Which one day Into a euphnious melody, would've turned A disdain of such a kind Finally it withers and dies Their efflorescene Oh let it pine and die When your now disgraceful hands On their flight once so bright, it lands The only thing scrutinized The absolute apocalypse Of their mesmerising shine Of their once perpetual shine

What are we, if not stories abandoned Some fairytales and some nightmares At last, after the long run Turning into dust And left behind the tears Which tear souls apart Tears which are lethal and fierce Those menacing drops of water Pouring down the fragile cheeks Of our loved ones Sometimes, disrupting the roofs and walls Of their suffocated and vandalized hearts

Resplendence once it was Old Lady's heart raced in bliss Indeed a tumultous whirlwind When Old Lady thought of it To be absolute perpetuity While it was camouflaged in ephemarility Ears were shut and she saw none Old Lady's soul behoved for own art and The conical pendulum balances Ecstasy's pretence and doldrums actuality As she's caged in thrall When at stake is her Impulse of creativity Her impulse of absolute trueness But as of today Old Lady let's herself and her purity Stained so wicked With utter excruciating numbness Remembrance of the time ever fleeting When Old Lady danced to The only form to preclude pain Now Old Lady's whereabouts Traced only in deep trenches Of a forever nothingness When there lies no resonation The actual death of Old Lady's Once very own essence Once so much of ingenious imagination Old Lady curls herself In her shroud of authenticity's stupor Forgetting time, forgetting tomorrows When it was of a ceaseless forever When now it remains as A mere shadow from yesteryear When Old Lady turns treacherous When she has remained As serpent to her own craft Her once own realm When there remained No surface to her being Not an escape on the brim When Old Lady once was Her very own linguist For her musings Entangled with clearance of true reflection Now, she wakes in cold sweats When the night no longer delights When the night now strangles her into profound depths When she looses her only panacea When Old Lady's soul portrayed transparency When now it's of a very dangerous opacity