The sun behind the clouds is a well known trickery,
Penetrated rays would perhaps have vigour of misery.
Enlightened parts of me will ring a bell of well-dressed lies,
The frail self will be saved by the ironically gloomy skies.
Idealism confused as cynicism will be expressed in the resentments,
Consequential bitterness will be considered as lack of sentiments.
Yet a few Doves will tweedle around and send their spies,
Silver linings might be enticing, but I’m out of Butterflies.
About the Author
Shubham Singh
Joined: 12 Jun, 2016 | Location: , India
I'm an engineering student and an aspiring creative writer.A visionary trying to give things a different angle and vision.Follow me on-Twitter-wellservedshitInstagram-_shubham__singh...
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