I awake on a bed of roses, 

Whose petals crunch like orphaned autumn leaves.

A ray of sunlight towards me approaches,

Dancing in the light are muddy speckles aplenty.

 

​I can feel the air around me toy with my locks,

Which is as feeble as your grasp on my hand.

But I hold on

To you, this very second, this very moment.

​​​​​​

The mere sight of you sugarcoats my disillusion in delusion.

You're a dream, your presence a revelation.

But you're just that, a dream, a lie, a dupe.

I don't know what to make of you.

​​​​​​

You offer me your hand as we float,

And I instantly spot instead of your palm an iron hook.

I take it, without a question, your support.

Guess I've forgiven you.

​​​

A hook for a hand

Costs me my faith in you.

On my skin the iron crescent lands.

In bruises and wounds my palm is festooned.

​​​​​​

You let go of my hand and fade away,

Leaving my severed palm to bleed incessantly.

But as the traces of your last remains are erased,

I feel free.

 

Shifa