Even this small twig,
nearly sunk into the mud
on this wet and beautiful evening in spring
with just a delicate push,
could convince me to write…

Marooned by thoughts,
slowly and peacefully,
drifting through memories…
Ones that hover in my palace,
all over the horizon
more beautiful than this sun upfront
ready to go for it’s daily dip…

These pages
ready to hold all my emotions,
and all the ruthless scribbling ahead.
Brushing over the very thought
that they would be seeing
my broadest grins, and
the days I’d be standing
in a mirror house without a light…

And even if I’m unable
to decide what to write now,
brushing away all the dust
and dandelions,
my thoughts zip back
to the wet grass under my feet.
These mere strokes will be stuck
in my mind, forever…
just like my immature love for
honey.

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