Note: This is a shape poem. In the case of messing up of its design, your small screened mobile phone will be seen as guilty. The poet won’t be blamed as unsuccessful in her first attempt of shape poetry.
Of all soliloquies
Dig the heart to the core
When the days without a word,
Become a seized detestable necessity
A thousand conversations are found inside,
Which I could have discovered with me and you,
But such spade; such spades are modest
In a modesty,
Of solitary darkness.