Vanilla moon,
indigo skies,
a shade of red,
behind these eyes;

Withered tears,
buried past,
thunderous rains,
these clouds have cast;

Fading ink,
growing scars,
tally marked walls,
and black metal bars;

Elegies penned,
on broken hearts,
violent stains,
or decaying art;

And where they sleep,
shadows play,
and forsaken lie,
their nights and days.

Inmates now,
but not for long,
the gallows scream,
their hallowed songs.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar