smiles surreptitiously
each morn.
As if incumbent to defeat the
misty hangover of the receding winters...
Similar to the nascent fervor
of a lurking scheme to sabotage
the existing quiet of a system..
Mired in self confessed confidence
the sun stretches its limbs
gradually, slowly.
Just as the frosty kohl of the morn
melts with the progressing day-
Erasing the sharply defined,
carefully marked boundaries
of the dreams that rest
limply on the eyes each morn...
The sun conspires
to erase, to outshine, to perhaps flood
the night lost with itself.
Does it matter at all
to see its rapacious
beams scorch the
dewy fresh minty grass?
Perhaps no-
Because to defeat one is perhaps the greatest victory..
Maybe it was just the fate of the dew to be trampled underfoot , the destiny of those dreams to be lost- the dreams of conquest often just turn out to be hollow specters in reality. The sun was just the instrument.
ReplyDelete@shailesh, interesting!
ReplyDelete