Searchings

She isn’t my friend anymore,
She is back to being the cat:
Her claws painted with chanel
In shades of red,
Like a set of ten
Exploding stars.
She looks at me as if
I am a broken fence
With rocks clustered around
Since the stone age.
What is she searching for,
I wonder.
The tree of life?
The bridge across time?
The elixir of youth?
Or just some tune that
She knows, but doesn’t remember?
Which reminds me about
My own searchings:
No, not some fountain or
Peak or meteorite, but
A fresh smell:
A smell of a time
In the past, when
Her nails were painted with chanel
In shades of red,
Like a set of ten
Fresh roses.

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About Zeeshan

We are the twinkle in the eyes of oblivion.

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