The Fugitive Poem by Niki Brahma

So, soft tender throb,
no exceeding excitement
just a little numbness.

Is it for that soul!
that deranged one
for whom she didn't survive the fall.

Residing in every sigh,
even the chanting seems useless
Bewitched by the charm of a wizard
No black magic,
neither miracle could be heard.

Disguised as a messenger,
even those eyes could tell
Instead it could be called a leviathan.

The melancholic solitary heart
nearly at the edge,
despairingly lamented for him.

That trust based on love,
hijacked the innocent soul
and the burial went in vain.