I herald the change in me

weather keeps pace writing on leaves

sprinkled till the far end of my horizon

 

I write another fragrant sentence

scent of these words fills my bosom

 

I fit my feet into shoes made from dried petals

I walk on clouds

be it ninth or seventh

it matter not a long as I stay intoxicated

 

for the moment I open my eyes

all I see is the  baritone that belongs to you

 

heart that walks on pavement

lives by words unspoken

 

poems that give birth to themselves

get conceived during predicating hours…