To speak of touch, to speak
of lips,this memory of your's
in my fingertips.
Every synapse,nerve,each cell...
every vein pulsates
with this story to tell.
If life's just a mirror
of a dream and every melody
just the rhythm of a scream...
No telling which way the axe
will swing;
or where the prelude
becomes the sign
that ends everything.
Anirban Kapil Baishya (20/7/2012)
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