And, when I perched upon the twilight,
November came as my kindred spirit.
Solitude swirled in the clouds-
with crimson sunsets, the sea's unsaid hymns,
silver pines, parting a goodbye, all those
birds who couldn't return home, and those fiendish
curse, the dark winds whispered.
I was one among them,
trying to write my unsung verses,
trying to be the boat in the river of solitude.

And, when the violets sit on my hair like amethyst,
I sing in solitude, my hope buried in a tombstone.
I tasted the tangy liquid on my cheeks,
which sprinkled like the lemons.
Wait, it wasn't lemon because I didn't feel fresh.
Maybe it was tears.
Tears promising a fresh tomorrow with no mistakes.

And, when my verses forgot to count,
It became like this poem-
telling about a bee who didn't swarm
amidst apple blossoms, or the rustling peace
pretending to be my solitude.
How can you play with the wind
when it comes to you like a gale?

And, maybe we all are the prettiest
shade of a rainbow, spilling tears
for creating a rainbow-
Either by flying or perching upon months.
The dalliance of glitter and poetry
now rows the boat in the river of solitude,
and when the gale comes
I make it open my tombstone of buried hopes.

And-
There can't be a and, anymore.
For solitude was just a eulogy,
for the hope,which I was forced to bury.