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…
