birth-day

I really dont want 21st august to come to me this time.

Walks

Evenings held the key
To our mistful memory
The nauseating roads wane
Penning our mundane
Those droopy tress speak
When our words grow tired and bleak

Then, strangers walk and spell
In immorality they dwell

As nights crawl down last
We look for our doors in haste
A part of each is taken this night
Like the moon reflects itself in tide