How many conversations before one realizes the folly of rewind?
How many sleepless nights before the lights die and fall like autumn leaves?
How many unread poems before the pages disown the red lines scribbled on it?

A simple sunrise to revive the mind dead to love and life,
Red blood drips onto the sand, closer than ever to the shore,
The figure crumples into a soft heap next to a half made castle,
Crimson lines stain the bleached sand,
Stings as the salt water washes over the figure.

Too late. Nothing remained. Gone was the castle. Gone was the shadow. The figure dissolving like sugar.


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