The columns in my heart bleed & speak the truth,
Every column holding secrets ,which until now were unperturbed.
Each secret devoid of its meaning, every lie now not worth the shambles,
Which we created when we crafted our own story, when we didn't know that even love is nothing but a gamble.
Flowers now grow out of each column, each flower is now stained in blood.
Like our soul which left in search of meaning, only to return with its hands soaked in red.
Wanting someone with no measure should serve as a warning,
No measures are like sharp tools of sculpting, changing and breaking us into small pieces.
Each piece a broken fragment of a dream, on touch it cuts our fingers,
And on being left behind it gathers dust.