the voice cracks in the summer sun
I hear things falling apart
underneath my door knob
behind the cobweb- almost gone now
i hear things decaying,
distorted as the morning yawn
the leaves so parched
the sun , cold and warm
there is a music that stops playing as i write this
the music that speaks about fallen dreams,
listless curvature of atmosphere.
stillness is what i observe 'stillness in my body, my toes and lips
the earth so happy and warm now
almost like a cerulean sadness
torn into threads of bruises
into diverse sects of lemon dried faces.
the hands so small and white
with my bosom hanging restlessly on the table.
there are things so peculiar occurring everywhere.
restless yet a still monochrome pattern of life
A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times.
Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied.
My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others.
Curator of Olive Skins.
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