Behold our frames hanging in empty echoes,
It scares and scars me to call them memories,
The faint smell of burnt incense sticks,
Much like my allure, resplendent yet hollow,
The ominous strike of the bed-side clock,
Engulfing reminders of life’s ticking grays,
The deafening silence of the wee-hours,
Echoes my chunks of blur, persists I listen…