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