And these scars read the stories on the abandoning of the sunshine and the arrival of the sullen pale crimson night.... The stories that could have started but ended with the starting note... And these scars sing lullaby in the midnight consumed by the destructive thoughts.... Lullaby that describes the fables of all those warriors who had a smile on their forehead in the form of the tangled frown....and these scars dance on the glance of broken wind chimes like a forlorn letting all it's notes flow deep inside it.. They tell stories that you don't want to hear, sing lullaby that doesn't make you sleep and those wind chimes make you tremble on the edge of the memory rope doing contortions..but maybe they are looking for their origin matching their traces with the finger tips of the characters in all those stories they tell .... Maybe its not the lullaby but Deja Vu of their past life of those unending ended commitments.... And maybe these scars were once the roses that were plucked and left to die..may be they were never meant to be scars and only flowers but their stories made them ? Cause when roses bear thorns they become scars...