Museum Of Memories

By Akshita Srivastava

Sightseeing can be a mirror, Dodging demands, I lay the broken foot stool with my sweetest dish, Been crawling stutters on the chosen ones which I thought were dearer, I lay there,best dressed, less stressed, being scraped out of the dishes which they once had in their top-wish. It's alright! I saw you in the eyes, friend, while you squinted them at the view of the bloodshed ballet, Emptily, you'd have them wide open like a caged sea when you see me lying best dressed, less stressed with clean veins. It's all mine!

I felt you in my eyes mother, as you mourn upon a certain coloured clothing giving you a cerebral ballet, Proudly, you'd have them wide shut, when you see me in a darkness of lullaby, this time I sing for you to cover my bloodstains. It's all dying! I held you in my open sea, my value, I admit giving some gruesome buts ending up with glue-some cuts while windoshopping a flooded ballet, Dreamily, they said fifteen more, clairvoyantly needed eight pills more to face and approach as this day faints. The broken band-aids lay there alongside the dishes but they see me best dressed, less stressed as I fade away the pretensions. Broken band-aids couldn't fix the broken, Now the museum murmurs upon where the memories got lost to begin being barren.

By Akshita Srivastava