Q u i d a m

Frozen peregrination

The space of air is tinkering with bells,

if someday it's frozen with ice skates,

I wanna be in the reverting space of skating rink—

where the air is forgotten to breathe, sighs are halted with muddy crap

and the green leaves aren't rusting anymore,

it's staying stiff even under the scrutiny gaze.

*

those mothers aren't riding with the backstraps, with the children going

ahead, leaving the mum's to follow

whereas the old school boy is anguishing wrath—

missing his bus for the fifth in a row,

everything is a parallelogram of sturdy,

the motion in a halting periodical stopped.

*

Isn't it what I always wanted? The space of term in a sequence,

frozen in a daze of static, you really can't do anything

only for me to steal a glance with your daily occurs,

the wind isn't gushing anymore, the world isn't distilled

with rustic crowds, it's vaporising a fresh meadow

i can spread my wings to match the eagles; who is stopped middle

in the timeline of motion. 

*

the grey roads aren't engaging with the flow of invasion,

quite placid, with the lucid dreams of exhaustion

it takes me down in alley of never-ending lane,

i see, those people with halting breath —

they're trying to part this yard of fabric,

alas, staying concrete with the patio site.

*

my letter of complacency is broken now,

the notion of landing have to come forward,

stopping the pilling rowdy can never be emitted,

they've to go, for the sake of living entity

isn't it the game, there's to be an end—

with one's departure, an initial beginning?

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