The latter, letter

This letter carries an art of pain,

An artificial strain covered in ice-cold tears,

A heart sparkling with morning dews,

And cursed sunsets

It carries caved echoes,

Voiceless symphonic serenades,

Empty jars and recurring integers

It carries a smile on windy outskirts,

Island peaks,

Lonely offshores,

Abandoned homes,

And deserted book covers

It carries a blurb of untold stories,

Suffocation of crippled hearts caught in blasphemy,

Curses tiptoeing in vain,

Great minds idling in constraint thoughts,

It’s no writers block;

Its untold stories let for no pen to find,

Author to unfold,

Ink to run out,

And tears to die on.

By: Ts Mashile