Tightening the grip of the blues, I smile at everything.
Hollow roads of the wicked wane away.
Wisdom benefits us to know the exactitude of Moon lit dome at home.
Mounting on the seclusion, I smear my lamps for a change.
Drying the petals of roses, we keep making a rose jam in honey.
Sweetened with the blissful mix, roses become delicious while soaked in nectarine syrup.
Catharsis symbolises the triumph over the dark web of collusion.
My poems smell the roses blossoming all along the starry night.
I am a spectator capturing the fragrant rhythms of roses.
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