Wednesday, April 13, 2011


tiny egg-shaped dreams
turn into relics of a memory pristine
of cicadas turning into moths
of wood burning, slow and green.
of musk spiraling into grainy sky
and flowers wilting bone-dry
A house tumbles down,
into hillock of nameless sorrow
a bird perches atop
in a comfortless stupor
and croaks an unyielding song
looking into pale yellow horizon
scraping little pieces of earth
to see a speckle of her reflection


  1. Some DREAMS !!
    Bold brush strokes
    Blinding ancient earthly colours,
    some deepest sensation of MUSIC.
    Love her reflection
    mental and physical

  2. Some sad undertones in this one... An innocence lost and never regained.
    Good to see that the language never suffers, creating your own style hence..