Red leaves hide the monuments of time
On that very bench;
And that engraved history.
That’s how it started maybe…
The breadths of roads were mere
Counts of leaves they were washed in;
Some strangers would have walked
There in the loneliness of winters,
Craving the warmth of sunshine.
Epitaphs…
Red again…
The leaves merging with
The rotten fluid of silenced
Cries.
And as I opened my eyes,
The vase beside me primed
The clock…anti clockwise.
Why are you still awake?
Hallucinations are a better way
To touch life.
No comments:
Post a Comment