Writing on the Wall

Am I running a-way or am I running to be a-way.

The sky is coming down suffocating me

I shall breath like I breathed last breath

But, what shall it is be call this bit of time.

The glasses of surrounding bursted and splintered

Have sliced me now miscalculativly random

Blinding me muting me sipping out all of my senses.

But I’ll be there like the shadow after nuclear bomb hurled;

Like the writing on the wall, the wall freshly repainted.

It’s this writings for which I’ll put bet on.

Every time you paint I’ll be the botch of monsoon damp.

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