Floating in the sky
Like white fluid still in time
But moves in slow grace
Swirled with a brush by an oil painter
Yet sculpted with regality of wood
A whisper full of substance
An illusion of support
This mischievous oxymoron
A melancholy beauty
This figure of grandeur
Is nothing but a passing
Cloud.
I rot in here now
Along with the old milk can
In the garbage bin.
Your love too
Has expired just like
The milk can.
Now I rot
With the milk can and
Your spoilt love.
My marionette,
Dancing to another's tune,
I thought it was mine?
24/7 running in my head,
not a moment of peace and constant
restlessness.
24/7 walking to a beat,
a pressurizing pulse to synchronize
every action with a piece whose name
I can't recall.
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