Snow white doesn’t travel the distance— It falls to its own weight, Only a thin layer of air circulates, And connects us. So we think.
Air now teratogenic, heavy As you grow inside me Ready to move, Still to be born, The womb cradles you, The way nature cuddles a storm,
Thoughts pigmented are put in kiln, Wishing they bake into dreams, Crack open into verses, geosmin scented, Waiting by stables for mares to lay their Platinum eggs…..
Poor Poet, she scribbles on the night, Pays rent to the beguiling moon, Buys stars to stick to her pajamas, A chintzy concoction of star and moon dust come down the sky-path bathing her in shimmers, for free, Only the pajama glitters but never the soul…..
The castle in the cloud breaks into rain, Aqua sheets like gossamer shutter obscure the breeze, Ants scurry for shelter, slowed, Hugging their crumb for the day, And you see moths who shine by morning gold, Die fluttering around the yellow streetlight in twilight,
Yellow will be colour when you will be born…..
And you may ask ,“What’s the brouhaha about?”
Well, Nothing. All for creating moments like those clouds soft and present moving along ,throwing kisses to the sky. Adorning and adoring.
Ah! The pathetic dreamer with no escape velocity….
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