My soul is an empty bookshelf
puffed up with lonesomeness, when
you left me high and dry with me and my
shadow in this bloodthirsty cosmos in order
to jerry-build your very own.
My soul is an empty bookshelf
touched down with conjecture
which you wreaked havoc on, when you
aforesaid this is in a loud note, 'i am
far away to frame my world'.
My soul is an empty bookshelf
blocked with falsity because
you have spirited away the veracity
infiltrating it with so many tales of
lies to draw breath together.
My soul is an empty bookshelf
heaped with desolation, because
the vivacity I gave you, placing
trust in you more at every point.
My soul is an empty bookshelf
spruced with the anamnesis of
duplicity, which I waded through
when the blooming ecstasy was
ceased to exist within me each
ephemeral day.
Ayesha Khalid
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