writing is a zebra crossing
painted on a lawless road
I try to reach over to the other end
Sometimes, shouting all along
and drawing attention
But almost always, end up contemplating
a compromise to be at peace.
The fire within will die down with time
like the brightness in the school album.
It will be remembered rarely
as a fashion that is passe.
Only these words would remain as a mirror
exposing the leakages on my skin
Unable to contain the ideals that escaped.