The borough pit was once a hill
Until excavators sort out for meals.
The terrain had shades, cool and calm
Till the sprouted trees fell cursing harm.
The blues sky was high and beautiful
Till it got clogged and demystified too.
The lion lost hope of using its claws
Until the birds fell and began to crawl.
Most silent killers are opportunist
Stealing shines from the worlds greatest…
Most dreams do not turn out to be real
Simply because of the emotions we feel.
My dear, it is not that I can’t stoop so low
“Serious” is not how I phantom life to flow
My prayer is to evade hits, when valleys turn to hills
Smiling while sleeping, hoping the devil’s smell wakes me.
e-Paper Poetry of Vinx 
So true.
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