Ode To The Aurora

The wind found its wet screen

On sedimented humid dawn,

Its moving visibility – a platform

For nervous flickering lights.

The little tea left in the cup

Fuming at my ignorance for it,

Busy nursing the echoing beats

Of silent urge in the air

Sealed in the awaken zones,

I hush the smokes of anger rising from it

Tearing down to droplets on my palm,

All members call out to be heard.

◄ Insignia

In The Melting Hours ►


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