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.
My continuity.

But then, the single train
flying in a vast to an unknown.

Her dubiety.

I will envy her
in my love and envy.


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