Wednesday, April 25, 2012

the man who vanishes in rain

One whose countenance
resembles wildflowers by the road

Who needs to be short-lived
as twilight and dawn

One who'd inspect the earth
the crust into which his roots
dug deep

He'd envision a flight of splintery stairs
leading him down to yesterdays

One who'd live by spinning out
silvery webs as that of a lone spider

Webs that grow dense as a still fog
yet are flimsy like daydreams
in cloud-laden hours

At times a drizzle would start
and make him think of his grave
lined with petunias

He'd then
bid farewell to her
for the season

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