Morning mist
I hurry my way
through the lanes
where I
used to sit
listening to stories,
which now
accumulate
like dust
on an
empty pathway.
Old conversations
bring back
the melodies
of songs unsung;
the chatter of
the leaves
speak to me
in a tongue
which I
once understood.
I stop awhile
and
listen to the dogs
bark at the birds;
the chirping of
sparrows,
a voice
long forgotten.
I look at the sky
and suddenly
the voices
stop calling out to me.
I step on the leaves
and run
towards
the horizon.
Sometimes
the dewdrop
wants
to be killed
by the sunlight.
They call it
sacrifice
but
I call it
a rhyme
weaved
in the skies.
I see the leaves
flutter
as my hand shivers
holding on
to the
half finished
tree
embroidered
on a towel.
You seem
to hang
on the branch
like a bat
whom everyone
including myself
want to understand.
It's a habit
or a compulsion
I don't know
but
the leaves crumble
as I fold the towel
hoping
you would fall
on my lap
or fly away.
Six in the morning;
sunlight trying to
pierce
through the sloth
of the mist.
I see the
unposted letters;
a spider's web
hidden
by the shadow
of a picture
on the wall.
I wonder if
your thoughts
woke me up.
The chirping birds
remind me
I never slept
in the first place.
Sitting with the
morning tea
I look for
the key
to happiness.
Language;
A drop
of water
hangs
from the tap
but never falls.
The sound of
my knuckles
louder than
the sound of
the falling
drop.
Stars weave
a necklace
in the skies.
It breaks;
infinite beads
scattered
on the highway.
Mist drapes
the sky,
We make love
in the haze.
A shiver passes
like ants
rushing towards
their home.
The fog disappears;
We communicate.
Sunset
the moon
doesn't care
