It's the loss of night
as her suffering grows intense,
For tears cascade down
the once dried up sanity,
Seeking shelter in your gloom.

It's the wind that consoles you...
Seeps from you the vacuous weight of guilt,
Smoothes the future on your palm,
A mistake deserved to be made.
And that's when the night wails.

She knew -- she knew the future
would never rise and beam
at the figure of excellence,
The figure of tolerance--
Whose death now would sing many a song--
The one whose fate was tangled up with yours.

So intricately was it sewed, someone claimed,
That Gaia snubbed a whimpering voice from faraway
as she gazed at the mesmerising artwork,
Riddled with (foreseen) flaws of a gory end.

It was this first sign of ignorance from her,
Which permitted you to grin the evil human,
Doomed to incarnate that long list of deeds,
Which sustained with a sly agility in your pockets,
as a crimson river adorned the threads of the artwork,
Thirsting for yet another voice a grave silenced.

His blood brought right to you your askew future, now found, right on the palm,
It delusioned you with dull, macabre light of stars,
For repentance didn't feed on the mourning night
and the honest wind,
Nor the innocent's blood adorning your being, girl,
Nor a snake's hiss like yours,
Devious,
Lethal,
Approaching,
As the blade twirled between your scheming fingers.

By: Shaily.K