It was that time, maybe a different month,
But it felt the same -
The song repeating itself in the background,
The coldness of my hands and feet,
The nights with nothing to wake up to,
The heart-shattering silence of the hopes.
It was that song, maybe a different beat,
Hitting home at fast pace -
The tune of sorrow and dark nights,
The soprano sweet voices of angels,
The lyrics crafted by the devil himself,
And orchestrated by the unseen hands.
In my hands was the same wineglass,
Frosted, with a slim hairline crack,
That tiny ripple in its cool beauty,
The mulled wine swirling gently,
Trying to hit the dark red stains,
Of where my lips had touched.
I shut my eyes tightly
Closing the lids on the tears,
Leaving dew drops on my lashes.
The teeth clattered in the coldness
Muttering prayers to whoever listened
Faith was a matter of miracles then.
It was the same song, hauntingly so,
Making its rounds in my head,
Shyly propelling the past to the front,
And pushing me deeper back in time,
The rhythm coarsing through my veins,
Pulsating its way to the faint heart.
It was the same time, the same blood moon,
The sense of empty enchantment
The sights in my seemingly surreal dreams;
Faceless shadows hiding smiles without mirth,
Speaking to me in cryptic forms; wordlessly,
In tones softer than the spinning in my head.
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