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The Last Kiss It drew closer Receding the gaps,

The Last Kiss

It drew closer 
Receding the gaps, and
Fostering new bonds between us.
The veins concentrated; all, in chest
I, failed to match the passion in those eyes,
Reclined effortless and opened the doors
Imploring those arms to embrace me. 
As, it is the only (favourable) end to the parable,
The only solution to the all the Apollo’s riddles,
The only shelter to a vagabond,
The final straw a sparrow brought, 
That evening, to fortify her nest,
The answer to all my prayers.
Stoned at hearing beats of that heart, 
As the bodies merged, 
Lost the count of mine.
The warmth that breath had 
Made me short of mine.
My lips, upon peck of those steamy lips
Turned into a desolate land, 
In want, to quench the thirst,
I let my lips burn in the blazes.
Eventually, we became one, and
My beatings stopped.
I am yet to apprehend 
Whether, it drew out my life, or
Infused it’s in my body.
Was it the kiss of life, or
That of death?
Well, I still exist (maybe) 
Somewhere, over the lines of those petals,
(Maybe not) and have been brushed away,
By some more delicate strokes.
The Last Kiss

It drew closer 
Receding the gaps, and
Fostering new bonds between us.
The veins concentrated; all, in chest
I, failed to match the passion in those eyes,
Reclined effortless and opened the doors
Imploring those arms to embrace me. 
As, it is the only (favourable) end to the parable,
The only solution to the all the Apollo’s riddles,
The only shelter to a vagabond,
The final straw a sparrow brought, 
That evening, to fortify her nest,
The answer to all my prayers.
Stoned at hearing beats of that heart, 
As the bodies merged, 
Lost the count of mine.
The warmth that breath had 
Made me short of mine.
My lips, upon peck of those steamy lips
Turned into a desolate land, 
In want, to quench the thirst,
I let my lips burn in the blazes.
Eventually, we became one, and
My beatings stopped.
I am yet to apprehend 
Whether, it drew out my life, or
Infused it’s in my body.
Was it the kiss of life, or
That of death?
Well, I still exist (maybe) 
Somewhere, over the lines of those petals,
(Maybe not) and have been brushed away,
By some more delicate strokes.