Where I would be if you hadn’t been those celestial orbs for me, I often wonder. Your words like birds of migration take me far away where death loses its sting, becoming a classical dancer speaking in the ankle bell words. You are my Bhairav raga tuning me for the day, my afternoon soiree filling my lone soul with your music. If ever those sleepless eyes of mine like the wavy Cypress speak in a broken-nest tongue, you drag me to those whirling stars as was in the art piece.
the wind on a carnage
shreds the dark clouds
pulling out misty autumn
intact from those clutches
Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #18 hosted by Thotpurge
Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United