Rusty nails in my brain,
that drive me to the edge;
While I sit atop my ego high,
six feet from the ledge.
The wailing winds of passing time,
that sing their symphony;
Brush my face and carry me far,
from my realm of blasphemy.
The sound that rings in my ears,
that high-pitched lonely scream;
The one I hear in silent storms,
when I’m bathing in my dreams.
The shining moon upon my face,
that tries to keep my warm;
Her silky stole wrapped around,
the heart I hold in my arms.
And demon horns that hold this ink,
deep inside my mind;
Feed my quill from angel wings,
with poems for my kind.
While I sit on my ledge;
Staring at the stars;
With my moonshine shawl to cover my scars.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar
