When they come knocking at my threshold
I gather them in my lap
Handfuls
And put myself on the backburner
To simmer
Till they turn into long meaningful sentences
Till they extract design from the air they transcend through
I gather them in my lap
Handfuls
And put myself on the backburner
To simmer
Till they turn into long meaningful sentences
Till they extract design from the air they transcend through
They turn into lores
That my fingers sing
And fly away from my gripping thoughts
To claim skies free of blue
And then
With a bang
They arrive at my window
Falling with the raindrops
Flapping against opaque glass
And i miss them
Standing at my door
Where rain conveniently
forgets to drizzle…
