Happiness doesn't increase
nor the potency of sadness ebbs
by one writing away methodically
in an origami of expression.
Though written about
the flowers wilt.
the situations tilt.
Memories, monuments protected
closer to your heart
slip away, as if shunning
this constant puncture of blankness.
You own them for a while
Soon they disown you.
Lose you in a busy market place
bade you good bye, in a variety of ways.
You catch some through writing
store them in a smoke jar for future.
They plead for an escape.
Their deliverance is never satisfactory.
Only in writing you promise them
anything and everything.