Cold & lonely, the wind plays
against my skin. It licks
the damp foliage of my lips,
It takes my breath away.
Who dreams of a flower
that has drunk beauty
in the anguished bruise
spilling all over its petals?
These are perennials,
dying hints of harmattan
rustling under their worn boots.
Wait a bit for the children
to gather bit by bit
the bitter ends of today;
Hear them complain.
All the different bells
have faltered into silence;
mothers will sleepless tonight
as rain knocks & taps;
sleepwalking its riverine way
into my dreams.
I still dream of places that remain the same. Places that will age with me until their stories become my stories and they become players in my make belief.