Water stirred, bloom whisper in a weird mannerism—

Laugh, scoff, mock as you may, there's little bit

comfort in knowingly face, that lies in moulding

trim, all silent—equivalent— distressed syllables

stressed out, cold, harsh wind, slapping hard

at man's distress, rustled by the cinematic breath—

never passed between two objects, for the lips—

uttered: a name, that lingers still, echoes louder

than a summer breeze, while dreams passed out

by seconds, I'm watching, watching for a lingering

potion, a mother, wetting her child's forehead—

in feverish night, for a fickle of mirrored nightstands

prayers paid off in huge debt—

Waiting, watching, yearning for shades in grains,

Leaves rustle once again, her voice: quivering in pain.

— 23rd September, 2023