How difficult it is
to just wake up
in the middle of it all
Staring
and lost
without knowing what it takes,
or how it slept lately
in the innocence
of talking.
The commerce
to keep alive, to warm again
before a cold festival of lights.
That sung about returning in glory.
Or sometimes it changes to describe.
The part of moving away in one such trope. May be.
May be it's not just the change
in the flipping months
of wintry skies and the man
and the tilt in the tint of crops and colours.
There's more to performance made after a prep.
They say change is dramatic. Truly.
May be not.
Brittle, as it is, too in all it's strength. A symptom of lost literature.
But from liquid voices to counting days,
to think to change a grip.
I ask you today.
Isn't it quaint, how you and I
bewitch ourselves and
belittle the play
to measure distances out of silence?