To Lost Souls.

Restless isn’t it?
The glorification of death,
A cementing ache of completion.
The matter over mind…Alas!

Perhaps it is in the edifice of kinship,
The Vale of Love breathing in the air in which we gradually corrode,
A grain of sand – an aeon of history.

To ruminate in the woes of a carcass,
Your nurturing blooms in a despondent awe of strength;
Strength – i do not constitute of such ruffles in my veins, all I know is but to contemplate.
Dying is perhaps the inevitability of reverence,
For it is in the wilting of a conscious soul – in the descent of a helpless tear.

The discrepancies in the blur of a hindered dusk;
“What’s it like, to vanish – “
In the loss of a sagacity that one consoles,
And the Arcady that confides in the stride of trust,
Perhaps I have lied.

It shall nestle in my bosom,
The loss of a loved one – a hand of warmth.
And the ache for a friend in a graveyard full of buried hopes.
As it settles and precipitates in stone,
Your numbing silence,
And my peace with the abyss.

Forever soulful, dear friend.

– Imaan Siddiq

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