The brightest of stars is not compatible to my physique
The pilgrims and the wanderers, in me would find what they seek
But then you faltered, perhaps not knowing the monumentality of words
You didn’t know I idolise them the way the disenchanted sky is for caged birds.
I can neither fathom nor comprehend
Is it an attempt to look deep into the aged wounds and mend?
But my walls aren’t tamed; they know when to hold themselves in contempt
They daren’t stir, for many a times they’ve paid the price of moving ascent.
You couldn’t say
For you knew all too well that this ‘phase’ shall too pass
Yet you faked it all, in the fear of sounding superficial and crass.
It ended up to nothing but a game of pretence
Laced with secrecy, shaded and shrouded with deception, dense.