I see my face, forming over a cloud.
It was a jocund stage, away from the crowd.
It soon faded away, but didn’t turned me sad.
It’s my soul, not sole, don’t stab it hard.
I thought of them as joyous, rustic.
Even, a nightmare was never that linguistic.
The scars and scribbles kept tarnishing my card.
It’s my soul, not sole, don’t rip it hard.
I was amazed, bewildered at the fact.
That they weren’t those, they always enact.
Maybe, I was the one who found ‘M-O-M’ hard.
It’s my soul, not sole, don’t cut it hard.
Just hoped of playing with a Toy Truck.
Still was happy, with these pain stuck.
I saw, who quilled the shrubs in the backyard.
It’s my soul, not sole, don’t gnaw it hard.
My grave drizzled, but never bleeped.
That’s how peacefully, a 13 year old could sleep.
I was finally dig, deep in the dreary backyard.
It was my soul, not sole, which was torn apart.
©anurag567
A