POV- I imagined living in the Victorian Era and had a feeling to write a poem. Hence this came out.
The neighbourhood is a wet puddle. Across the streets, I see the women having a camp-fire whispering soft murmurs about the mundanity of life, into the blue hemishphere where stays a large apple- tree. The women of my town are a faint pear- with whitest bosom and whitest eyes. Look, the hourglass shapes have moved now- torn between the edges of languages, one is cutting the rind of a lemon while the other makes a lemonade. They banter vicariously and live through the sky. rust on their elbow, as if a second skin to their thighs. The women shaped as exhibitionist gulping down a massive portion of tranquil shines: They can't see. They can't hear perhaps. They have done the job when the dark falls, one word at a time- one woman to another. The women are too fast to remember anything the next day.