Things Don’t Make Sense Anymore.

I woke up at 3.

I had another dream that things will get better.

It’s a hope that died with eyes wide open.

“There is nothing for you here,” she smiled drifting in the cosmos.

Bright red lips and other things that hold secrets.

She shelters me from pain.

I never got enough milk.

Sunlight disinfects the ghosts.

And there was no cure

It was all an illusion.

We hold nothing in our hands

And your image disintegrates as we speak.

(c) A.R. Minhas 2020



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