The sail of silly wind ceased. Navy cloak-cover damps the sky. Sky palming the wet moon. Dripping. Slimy. Mouldy. Night sleeps under the blanket of rain. Turned frost. Wind, wondering how to cross the Cosmic sea, ether growing conocybes. The fungal moon.
But once The wind treaded blithe, Roaming the permeating mystic, Fluttered the pristine, white sail, The ship sailed, when the luna silvered the river, Settled in its uniqueness, Bringing gems from across the shore— We wade to the deep….
Deeper we wade, water stays un-waded, Distance measured in unscaled gadgets, Wandering to locales all unknown, The gift of mind still un-sowed,
Miles of days lost unbeknown, Years of night trudge rumbling bones, Your endless travel from centre to self, Strumming your harp-o-hymns, Hands of karma, Chakra of fate
O, omni-e-helmsman— it’s always your take…
And yet you are sold to the gargantuan innocence of the moment, ‘Till it is visible like a dew hollowed of its glisten under a full sun clement—
Still The silly wind blows. Peeling off of the stitched moon. The wet moon rising slow over the blue river.
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