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Ananya Dutta

Abstract Drama


4  

Ananya Dutta

Abstract Drama


Ye Love of Mine...

Ye Love of Mine...

2 mins 165 2 mins 165

In the quietest part of ye night, when thou hover betwixt dark and light, wondering if can thee float away on dreams, hoping will they not turn into screams...

'Tis another of ye hour, same as had this light of me eyes witnessed in some previous eventide, holds that me memory still - Ah! how prosaic a lapse 'twas, and 'tis a transition of no kind that anticipate I now me dear, merely company - me sanity. Such drowsy art me eyes now, 'tis vainly that long I for thou, yet, am I in clasps so tight, art they ye ones of awareness - thuds of thine feet nearing me chamber of dryness, why! do thee expect? Pardon me for is there no nightingale in me wilderness.

So parched is ye land beneath me now, so obnoxious is thy advent, 'twill be lament, me company. 

'Twas an hour about the same light, merely the black lighter, and ye loiterers as well. Beholding art me eyes now, ye frown thy wear - ah! a façade art thou failing to keep, such is thy frown of forgery. And here thee scrutinize me glance, such grotesque a visage! condemn! ah! such crass! But is me gaze so transfixed on ye visage thou own, and there comes alas!

'Tis another battle of meself I fight, may I confide in thou, ye defeat taste I already, and thus weave I, me quilt with ye skin that am I merely left to shed, and there is thine examination, hither and thither, hither and thither...

Reach me hands for ye providence, 'tis all they seek now, indeed, in ye confinement of me prison. May He shower this mercy, just this mercy for desire I to beseech no more. Ah! Blondie! behold ye last of me laughter, do me an honour of a smile, just this while; Descry ye bereavement is my skin wrenched with, heed single a cut, is me scream even sore.

'Twas His Grace, oh sacrosanct providence Thee hurled that remain I here, and for thy words Blondie me dear, was I and am I not grisly, never 'twill be me, me Blondie...  


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