Freen Ebrahim


Fumbles. Falters. Stumbles.
Curled fists, in paroxysms of torment,
Fears unfurl, dissipating into the raven cloak of night,
Searching, I stare at the sky,
Ruminating in the fractals of hollow questions,
Morosely answered by the bitter reflections of one-self.
Drowning in the sodden dregs of sorrows,
But only in vain,
They seem to rise to the surface.

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