The way home; as the footprints taper
I see yesterday’s footprints
have collected rainwater
stitched together in pauses
and a flickering lampshade
all that remains is hate
The damp walls-
the smell of rotting paint
with every breath
sweats into me
a strange intoxicant
I am home again
an errant twig scratching
the broken moonlight-etched window
I wish I dreamt
of an old photo, us
in an blur of star shine
My shadow the only shade;
I run home to open windows.
A crow laughs over seven lanes
And flies seven streets,
A hand through my hair!- it’s just breeze.
The airs cool when the lane dips,
And soft rain drips glass buttons.
Above the filling clusters of people,
fluttered moths and insects of night
in the revealing rays of stadium light,
who care not for the flight of beetles
when echoed growls follow the rite
and crackles of colored light,
while monsoon brought no evils
only drizzle colored grey against night.