By Shanchui L. Shimray
Lying on needles,
Gazing up the flicking shimmers;
Peculiar chirps that I hear,
Everytime my mind is near.
My missing piece;
Belonged to me seized.
Maybe indecorous, but not a crime;
Though was not once mine.
Was pushed to a line
To descend into a fine wine.
Chrysalis alone with my kenopsia,
A mystery to me if it is my phobia.
By Shanchui L. Shimray
Comments