I gaze upon the clouds,

Searching for your essence.

But the mere apparent,

Is that your presence, an old folklore.

Oh, the glass tore through your skin,

And ended up piercing my heart.

You were replaced by nauseating wreaths,

And still your shadow discernible on that wall.

The thorny roses imprison the realist inside,

And solitude makes me a wallflower.

The wreaths dried out,

Just like that heart of mine.

Still, your haunting spirits

instill serenity in my life.

The dealings with peace are being negotiated,

The dreams of you, says otherwise.

Your memories are the remains of you,

And the cremated grey matter, a ghost.

Your deeds are your heir apparent,

Distilled are the memories of yours.