No limits to where one treads,
A land unknown to the breathing souls,
So blurry, so foggy,
The existence of grey in every atom.
So cold, so grim,
The chilly skin of my hands,
Numb my face from gusts of freezing wind.
Ho! My Ghost Town!
It conceals what is visible to the common eye.
It hides its secrets in thick grey fog.
Every particle of the cold mist,
Shall hold its grief and despair,
Through years that were and those to come.
No roads, no lands,
Like the astral plane in the grey skies,
Like the state of my mind beyond its forbidden regions.
The more you hide,
The more I want to know.
The more you conceal,
The more I want to uncover.
Your face is unknown to me,
But thy state isn’t.
You’re breathing alive,
And so am I.
The way the fog dissolves with the green foliage,
Like the colour of blindness when I close my eyes,
The state of the meeting of two forbidden voids,
The void of existence and illusion,
Like the reconciliation of two edges,
One that breathes and one that lives.
I can’t feel you,
But I can see you,
As you conceal every inch of my skin,
And overtake my soul and body.
You are a genre of light,
You are my Ghost Town.
– Imaan Siddiq