Isn’t it so…
mind to hold nothing to keep
when shadows turn to dark
academia’s requiem-maestria
midnight’s tongue of blasphemies
when fingers dance on flesh
in the absence of dawn
with a scent of tragedy
as the shadows play symphony
softly winds in atrium’s cry
as the ghosts of our genius
leads us astray to pages
to escape if we try to sleep
into the ocean deep








