Snow in July

My body was the easel where he hung his canvas,

On which he spat all the memories like the drunkard moon,

Cause every time the dusk sweeps the sweet sunshine hanging on the chin of my old curtained wall,

And the moons seeps into it,

It lightens itself on the marbled floor,

With humps of memories,

Of how you let me drink the liquor off your heart,

On the nameless forbidden street,

Of how you took my heart in an ambuish,

And planted flowers in it which was meant to bloom,

And how you never pulled the weeds out until there was no drop of perfume left,

And so you wrapped the garden incongruously and left it on my doorsteps,

But you forgot that I was a tenant in that aisle of unnamed rooms,

And that I had already sealed that place with a frozen tape,

Void of any compassion,

And moved forward towards those echoing corridors,

To a place, I called home.