Demonic kind

Moirangthem Minakshi Devi *

She was tremendously drunk, and fragile like a plague,
It was intent to the demons, stuck by her instead.
Time was stagnant inside her, yet still flowing,
Thirst was fluid, yet hidden under the potions and beasts,
its so unfair, yet a bit inhumane,
That Hope was a false lie, to every molecule preceded on the surface.

But to her,
It was never an impose,
from having to return where belongingness found her.
Her devotees lurked behind the war fields, And pine trees,
In the Depths of haunted seashore and widow caves,
She lived between the pillars, and bones where gnomes
were tagged to their pillowcase.
Bulged eyes,

Such a poor accent in their screeching null screams,
Only that She is a fleek deaf,
That Never had to sit through the breeze of clef.
That's how many words she missed,
Oh, she's gifted
But her pretentious wailing, were fled

Waiting for the fathom to raid,
With the stills of fallen murals,
In the Cadence, with the resemblings,
Like the night parade
of one hundred demons,
Was left to trade.