In Vanilla Storm

No whimsical fault could be undone

Or unfold

And no asinine desire is free

To run wild and flimsy ,

As flaming mirth

Here,

They were nothing,

Nothing but shards of broken glass

Feral glints of fuschia emanated their lucid surface

Like sunken dreams

Filled with lurid mess of curveless edges

Frosty and sharp

And vapidly brusque

As they seamlessly cut into our gossamer taradiddles

Like thin ices

And right where we stood,

Stygian eyes aimlessly set frozen on each other's (eyes)

Laid Cold and bare.

Repeating nonchalant words that revolved into bleak muses

Seems enjoyable , but they weren"t

When the vile

-They ran through the vessels of our minds

And we are nothing,

Nothing but blazing arrows with blue flames

Aiming on each other's chests.

Inane as It was,

This vanilla storm flashed bright and clean

On the skyline

Thought graceless and brusqe

and fervidly stolid

In that frivolous breeze

That danced fluids of motionless truth

Peeling our forsaken hopes into austere grains

Of damp sands.