Incessant buzzing muttering
About your ears.
A concocted and planned slap
And the tireless mosquito flies and flatters at last.

As you carelessly pick up the squashed
Flattened corpses with ignorant blood lined fingers,
Is this foreign blood the only thing
That riles your fingers.

Is the buzz the only other voice,
Grumbling and groaning,
Before you put your ear against
The walls of your still beating chest.

A voice of doubt rings and crashes,
Like the dead sea frothes on the precipice of the shore.
Receding our footsteps with it into the womb of the unfathomable sea,
And the poison slowly dissolves into fibres of the white rose.

One that by the tint of love had cast off
It's innocent white attire,
To appeal to a rosier tint of shy love.
Has now put on a dusty mouring gown, like the dusk red of your poisoned blood.
-Divyosmi