There flies the whistle, the dead curiosity
of a childhood;
as the soothing and steady is suddenly stone teased into ripples.
It isn’t right somehow.
Equilibriums are too steady for some
and steady for some.
Those visible, turn faint
I can let these eyes glow as they do
and call them positivity.
I can say a No.
But I can’t build mirrors
Do I owe it to these sane eyes?
Let go!, the infant tune taught, still rings.
I am only supposed to play this number
in occassional rains.
Or is it the runway hiding under sleeves
as I can’t reach.
A ladder and a plain and the inversely same
My fear of a fall and dream of a fall,
both are in a mutual breach.
The whistle’s gone.
Further left to perceive are perceptions,
always faster in catching up with the gone,
once it’s unseen.
Owing to the luck,
I can now see them in arrivals and departures.
But then, the single train
flying in a vast to an unknown.
I will envy her
in my love and envy.